Morphine
by Anna McNarin
Summary: I promise you, you will not know where this story will take you. This is a crossover with SH 22nd Century, but I chance more readers here.
1. A Rift Within Me

_July 2, 2104 _

_ I was myself not a moment ago, now I have been lost unto a repose that mirrors death its self. At first I felt it natural to be disturbed by my thoughts, but that notion quickly left, replaced by intrigue. How is it that I could feel this way about my life? It left me dreading the walk to my grave, yet almost longing for it._ _The game is my repertoire, but why?_

_July 6, 2104_

From out of a hover car emerged two figures conversing in a hurried manner, a young woman and a metal man. They paused to gaze up at 221b. Baker Street's still drawn curtains with apprehension.

"You said he's been like this for four days now?"

"Yes, I have no idea how to rouse him. He hasn't moved from the couch except for occasional trips to the toilet; the man acknowledges nothing."

The woman pursed her lips determinedly. "We'll see about that," as she forcefully entered the suite, leaving Watson on the stoop.

Beth Lestrade took the steps to the sitting room two at a time, not bothering to knock before entering. She found herself stuck dumb at the sight of it all. A massive chemistry set occupied what floor space wasn't covered by stacks of books, papers, and furniture. Bottles of unknown liquids lay strewn about, or unceremoniously knocked over. The only clear place in the whole room was a lone chair by the fireplace, in which sat a hawk like man, his head bowed.

"Do take care not to upset my chemicals, Lestrade." The languor in Holmes's voice accentuated by a wave of his pale hand. "I should hate to see them spilt." He didn't look up.

Lestrade started to open her mouth.

"I suppose Watson sent for you then?"

Her mouth closed. "He did. What is the meaning of all this, Holmes? I haven't heard from you in days."

"My dear Inspector," he said looking at her finally, "surely you are aware I get a bit in the dumps, why act surprised?"

"Being depressed is one thing, what you're doing is something else."

"Is it really?"

"What have you been doing in here anyway?" She gestured towards the glass set on the floor.

Holmes followed her gaze with his eyes rather than turning his head. "I have been attempting to re-create a sedative that has been off the market for some time. I dear say I've succeeded. The solution works as it should."

Lestrade narrowed her eyes at him, speaking sternly. "What solution?"

"Hm? Oh. Morphine." He held up an ancient syringe. "I would offer to you, but I agreed with the real Watson that the sharing of needles is a nasty habit."

Lestrade's face contorted into shock, her mind unaware of the steps her body took to bring herself down to Holmes's level, unconsciously making a swipe for the needle. Her senses returned when she realized her fingers connected with something hard and cold. Holmes's hand. His grey-blue eyes clearing up to give her an unreadable stare.

"Never do that again." His voice calm, but furious; thin fingers flexing around her small wrist. "Now, sit down before I have you thrown out." He released her and placed the syringe in its morocco case.

Lestrade flopped into the opposing arm chair usually inhabited by Watson, mind-boggled. Holmes had never behaved this way, sure she read about his unsavoury habits, but never of him reacting so vehemently to a lady.

_Then again,_ she thought_, I'm probably the only person who's ever tried to force him away from his drug addiction._

"Yes . . . you are the only one to ever attempt that."

"What?" Lestrade started.

Holmes stared at his lap, the old Stradivarius across his knee. "Not even Watson dared to try using force."

"But Morphine? You shot yourself up with self-brewed Morphine. Holmes, why in the hell would you do such a thing? How did you know what I was thinking?"

His sensitive lips curved into a genial smile. "Would you care to hear something?" He brought the violin to his chin and began to play a slow, pensive song.

"How did you know?" She begun to rise.

The music halted. "You were grinding your teeth in anger and clearly shook up. How could I not know? Now kindly let me play, perhaps the music will settle your nerves."

Lestrade pushed herself as deep into the plush chair as she could go, defeated, for now. Watson had been right, there was just no talking to Holmes in this state. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to concentrate on the music instead of daydreaming about beating the detective senseless with one of his thick books. It failed.

"Holmes, this is insane. Why do this to yourself?" Lestrade shot up towards him, placing one hand on either arm of his chair, bringing them nose to nose; the violin hanging forgotten in one hand.

Holmes gazed ahead blankly and gave her a smile that was half smirk. "Since you will not leave, or let me to my Stradivarius, I suggest supper. Unless I miss my guess, Watson has come to fetch us for that very reason."

Watson, who at that moment had just raised a hand to knock, spoke on hearing himself addressed. "I did whip up a beef and carrot stew; if you would care to join us, Inspector."

Lestrade glanced from Watson back down to Holmes. "I'll eat if he does."

Holmes smiled and shrugged. "Well, we can't have a lady go hungry can we, Watson? I guess I have no choice. Shall we then?"

"Yes, lets." Lestrade smiled with a sarcastic twitch, backing off. "After you, Holmes."

"As you wish."

_July 7, 2104_**_ -_**_midnight _

_ A light unto my feet._

_July 11, 2104_

Someone was shouting. He was sure of it. But who? Now another voice entered the row. Was he shouting back? Impossible to tell, though now silence reigned.

"I curse the day life its self donned an evil face." That, he was positive was said aloud.

A female voice; concerned. "Holmes?" Dampness crossed his brow.

His eyes flashed open, throwing the washcloth across the room. Leaning to one side he struck the girl with a glare like none other.

"Heavens, Lestrade, how long have I been out? What is today?"

Lestrade snapped. "How the hell should I know?" Calling over her shoulder as she stood, "Watson! He's awake."

With all the rush of a mother hen, the robot of a man came in and breathed a sigh of relief. "Good God, Holmes, you had me worried you hadn't just fallen asleep."

"Fallen asleep . . . Yes, I lied down naught two hours ago. Really, Watson, such a fuss over a nap."

Watson looked incredulous. "I don't call slipping into shallow breathing a nap."

"Nonsense. I'm perfectly fine."

"Perfectly fine? Perfectly fine?! You haven't eaten in three days. Look at yourself," Lestrade dropped a mirror in his lap. "Go on. Take a look."

He had to agree with her, he did look deplorable. His eyes were glossed over, his clothes wrinkled, and his dark blond hair stuck up at odd angles. Anger welled in him. "What is it to you, Inspector? Losing pay?" The mirror hit the wall opposite, shattering into tiny pieces.

"Holmes, that mirror was a valuable antique, why . . . ," Watson began.

"Yes, and now it's broken." Holmes spat bluntly.

"Enough of this, I'm leaving. Call me when you find your brain in this mess you live in." Lestrade took up her coat and stormed out.

Watson rounded on him. "Holmes really, you have been nothing short of unbearable to her lately. This needs to stop."

"You're right. Get out."

"What?" Watson looked at him quizzically.

"Get out." He reiterated softly.

Watson's brow knitted in consternation. "But, Holmes. . .why?"

"A grand adventure to emulate the late Dr. Watson I'm sure, but do you really believe it to be in good taste?" Holmes put his back to the other. "Like our dear Inspector Lestrade, except I suspect having the real thing under your finger is much better."

"Fine, Holmes. I'll leave you to yourself then."

"Thank you."

_July 14, 2104_

_ Before my eyes you're gone, lost in a life I cannot know. I never knew time could vanish the way it has. I never wanted to stand alone._

_ That damn woman is at my door again._

_July 16, 2104 _

_ Lay your hands on me God . . . _

_July 19, 2104_

"Holmes, get out here now!"

"Lestrade, I have no intentions of leaving my bedchamber today. Your pounding on the door for the hundredth time will not persuade me."

"I'll kick it in."

"You will do no such thing."

"Wanna bet?" A heavy thud resonated as her foot connected with wood.

Holmes threw open the door livid. "Inspector Lestrade, I will not tolerate this behaviour in my home."

Lestrade fixed him with a sneer. "Nice to see you up and dressed. I feel so special."

Holmes snorted, securing the tie to the mousey dressing robe he had thrown on over his sleeping bottoms. "What the devil do you want?"

Lestrade pushed past him. "To see where you've stuck yourself."

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Holmes. Seriously, what did you say to Watson?"

"Ask him yourself." He motioned towards the door, and returned to his bed.

"I can't."

"Shut himself off did he?" Holmes's muffled voice rose from among pillows.

"Yes. Now what did you say?"

"It seems to me, that a private conversation between two individuals is just that," Holmes rolled onto his back, pushing up his sleeve, reaching for the syringe all the while, "private. Surely you don't divulge to others what is said in confidence. Do be so kind as to hand over that vile in your hand."

A rather arrested expression arose in her face. "Holmes, no! You can't keep doing this, not again."

"Once again, I have no choice with you do I?" He sighed, and with a deft leap moved for her. Lestrade pinned herself to the wall, the vile behind her.

"Holmes, don't you dare." She kicked him, causing him to stumble a bit. Throwing himself at her, he wrestled her to the floor. Lestrade fought him as best she could, but for someone so sinewy, he was remarkably strong. Nerves frayed, and tired from arguing with him every day, she slumped down watching as he drove the morphine into his dotted arm. Holmes smiled wide, fading back onto his bed.

"Why do you do this to yourself? You know you haven't worked on anything in almost a month?" Lestrade started shaking despite herself. Holmes slid to the floor watching her watch his eyes glaze over.

"What do you want?" He asked gently, bringing his knees up in his arms, sitting; his eyes suddenly brilliant.

"Stop."

_July 20, 2104_

_ . . . oh please won't you say . . ._

_July 21, 2104_

There. That was the last of it down the drain. She still couldn't believe he'd handed all of it over to her to dispose of. It had taken a few more arguments that she never wanted to recollect again, but she won. He even allowed her to thoroughly search his room just in case. Still, with all his drug gone, he listlessly lay upon the couch, eyes vacant. Lestrade supposed it was him coming off weeks of abuse, only he never answered her inquiries.

Watson was slowly coming round after whole-heartedly accepting an apology from Holmes. Strange thing was, Lestrade was almost prepared to swear Holmes's words were false, though his tone said otherwise. A great uneasiness filled her, as if the morphine had kept them from losing the detective altogether.

He no longer touched the food Watson brought him, and his bones were becoming more pronounced. Lestrade had told the Yard about Holmes's declining health, but they all shrugged it off as trickery on his part. They wouldn't send a doctor just to prove he could act. So there he lay, sleeping fitfully in his bed, as Lestrade kept vigil in the doorway.

"What do you want?" Said a tired voice, snapping Lestrade out of the stupor she had fallen into against the doorjamb.

"What?"

Holmes looked at her wearily. "You stand there so often . . . what do you want?"

Lestrade became indignant. "Don't start. You stress me out, you know that?"

Holmes chuckled. "It's raining."

Lestrade took a breath, listening hard, barely distinguishing the soft patter of rain that Holmes had probably heard sharp as a bell. "So it is." He didn't respond. "Holmes?" She sat for a moment, watching the rise and fall of his chest. _Huh, his hair has a wave to it,_ she noted, absentmindedly brushing loose strands off his forehead.

_Man, I need sleep,_ she thought mid-yawn. Striding to the door, Lestrade paused to look back at him, her finger on the light switch. _Night, Holmes._ She sighed, turning away.

_July 23, 2104_

_. . . that you'll heal me today._

_July 24, 2104_

Holmes was gone. Watson and Lestrade searched every inch of the Baker Street flat with no luck. The great detective, illness and all, had simply up and vanished. Lestrade hated to admit it to herself, but Holmes had probably walked out the front door, into the thunderstorm.

_Perfect. He has to choose now of all times to disappear on us._ She grumbled to herself angrily about him, casting worrisome glances at the entry way, as if he'd just stepped out for a breath of air. This was driving her mad.

"Oh, where could he be? He shouldn't be out in this weather, not in his condition." Watson wrung his hands as he paced in front of the fire.

"I know, Watson, I know. That's the sixth time you've said that in less minutes. We've looked everywhere we can for now, try to be patient. He'll turn up."

"Lestrade, that is all very well indeed, but Holmes does not simply vanish like this when truly ill."

"But he has."

Watson opened his mouth to reply, but thought better of it. "Are you hungry? It's almost time for supper." He asked instead.

"Sure, I am a little."

"Right then, I'll get started on that. You call me up if you need anything." The silver man headed for the kitchens with renewed vigour, believing that if Holmes did return, at least he would have a healthy, warm meal waiting for him. Lestrade, feeling edgy just sitting, got up, telling herself that one more go around couldn't hurt.

_First up, the bedrooms, _she told herself.

Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary was to be discovered in Watson's chambers. So she moved on to Holmes's room, her enthusiasm dwindling, nothing new to be seen at all. The room was still an unbelievable mess of everything he couldn't fit in the sitting room below.

_ When did he leave the radio on?_ Lestrade thought as low singing reached her ears. _Wait a minute . . ._ She flung the window wide open and climbed onto the roof.

"Nice of you to join me up here, Lestrade, it's quite invigorating." Said Holmes, sitting up against the chimney stack.

"Holy . . . Holmes, what are you doing up here?" Now completely soaked, Lestrade walked up to him glaring. "We've been looking for you everywhere."

"Not true. Had you looked closer you would have seen the water spots on the sill and floor from when I first opened the window to come up."

"You'll catch your death up here. Come inside." She folded her arms around her body, discovering she was rather cold. "Please."

"You will not win this one, Lestrade, of that I am most certain. Sit down. You'll be warmer if you do."

"I'll be warmer inside. Now come on." She tugged on his shoulder.

"I am not coming in."

"Why not? There's no reasoning behind this."

"There is always a reason for everything I do."

"What then?" She exasperated. "Tell me."

"Sit down."

Lestrade sighed and sat beside him. "There. Now will you tell me?"

Holmes wrapped his arm around her and pulled her in tight. Lestrade felt heat rising in her face when he pressed his lips to her ear. She felt him smile only to hear, "why only me?" whispered in her ear. She frowned.

"What? I don't understand."

Holmes put his head back and inhaled deeply. "He died today you know."

"What? Who died? When?"

"Watson, my dear, Watson . . ."

"Watson's down stairs, Holmes. He's fine."

Holmes shook his head. "I'm not acting. I am ill, but I do think I put too much on you this month. That downstairs, is not John Watson, close, but most definitely not him, nor will he ever be. No . . . John Watson died one-hundred-and-seventy-five years ago today."

Lestrade's expression lightened into sympathy. "I'm sorry." Her hand found his knee.

"My dear Watson was a remarkably ordinary man, but so much more. I will never be completely content with a robot as opposed to the real thing, but it matters not."

"Are you sure about that?"

His lips found her ear again, as the wind roared up. "Yes," he whispered. "This world was never meant for his eyes. I scarcely understand how I myself have managed to adapt."

"You're stronger than you think. We could always try you know, to bring him back. I'm sure there is a DNA sample of his somewhere."

"Ah, yes there is, and it's currently in the labyrinth that is my sleeping quarters. But as I said, no."

"Why not?"

"Because I chose this for myself after he died. I would never be so presumptuous to choose for him to live life over, and expect him to be happy."

"Are you happy?" Holmes's fingers twitched on her arm.

"What do you want, Lestrade?"

"Me? Nothing."

Holmes smiled. "Yes, I am happy."

* * *

_A/N January 2010_

_This chapter was written as a separate short story along the same vein as the rest of the tale and as such is now technically a forward, or more to the point an event that happened possibly a few weeks to a month before chapter two.  
_

_Corrected minor slips in punctuation, and checked for words spelled in the American variation that might have been overlooked._

_Random song lyrics are from "Lay Your Hands On Me, God", Dave Long, Joel Weldon Hendrickson & Steve Mills © 1992 - Little Peach Music, Inc._

_Title pulled from the song "Numb", The Sickness (2000), Disturbed.  
_


	2. Destination Unknown

_This chapter contains line breaks to aid as bookmarks if you do not wish to read it all at once._

* * *

A sweet, sweet smile graced his face, mouthing words only the dead could hear. The guest of honour had finally arrived. Eyes alighted he called to her, his voice spinning provocatively out of control, pulsating in her ears.

_**"Oh refuge of my hardened heart, oh fast pursuing lover come, as angels dance round your throne, my life by captured fare you own . . ." **_

Falsely sung, corrupting and enticing, she realized she never had been standing on her own. The love affairs of spirits and ghosts danced inside her mind, pale and dead, kissing her with lips of wine. Twisting her bodice to regain nothing of the control she thought to possess, the ensemble moved her to an unearthly heart beat. Heavier and sinking, figures began to drop at her glass slipper feet. Haunted eyes watched her dance, smirking into a well worn, unabashed grin worthy of the Reaper himself.

A voice whispered, _**"poor little thing, why make your life a living hell?" **_Behind her now, in her soul he spoke rather than her ear. She sang, knowing not whence the song came, or if it was her voice catching in the air.

"Help me . . ." The plea of a fainting woman, bent on her own destruction in the form of a persistent needle in her heart, thousands of pin pricks never known to her, made by hands never touching her.

Cold fingers brushed her violently red lips, _**"child, you're dead." **_The corset grew tighter and tighter as a beauty she kept secret in her heart burst open upon her face.

"But the music-"

_**"Music of the dead."**_

"Music of the dead," she murmured, lying on the forest floor, the skeletons fading into trees, eyes glaring from soulless pits. "I left my body at the door."

_**"What door?"**_

"The door of the dead, was it not?" She couldn't remember.

_**"Perhaps , or perhaps such carnal love was made to you that it was your spirit left behind, surrendering to the dance of the dead. Hmm?"**_

Confusion swelled within her. "He never touched me."

_**"Who, my dear?"**_

"I don't know." She lied.

In her ear; _**"then how do you know your saving angel didn't slit you from one delicacy to the top of your pretty little head?"**_

"Sherlock?"

_**"Ah, yes," **_the voice purred, _**"a friendly face among the dead you think? He ripped his wings off all by himself, you know." **_Convulsions wracked her body. Roots snaked round her limbs. _**"And now he's torn yours asunder. Tisk tisk, child."**_

She sobs. "He never touched me." Anger. "Let me go." Pulling at her bonds.

_**"What do you want?" **_Softly.

"Let me go."

_**"What do you want?" **_Persistent.

"Let me go."

_**"What do you want?" **_Chilling.

"Out. Let me go, I want out!" Screaming hysterically.

_**"Liar." **_Gone.

Forest green to freshly bled blood, she drifted away falling through peach scented wraiths clawing her dress free of her bruised skin, already purple. An invisible kiss and the tears came without restraint. She closed her eyes, coughing, gagging, drowning in copper flavoured satin.

A lone voice, "From the over flow of the heart, child." Black. White. BANG. A piercing cry of anguish sprung forth from the depths of her gullet.

"Come now, surely the sound of a gun wouldn't upset you." Came a clipped voice, edged with trace humour.

Beth Lestrade flung open her eyes, looking up from the settee towards the fireplace to see a lean silhouette cleaning his finger nails with a jack knife. A revolver lay on the end table. The man's grey eyes sparkled with boyish amusement as the knife found its way back into the mantel.

"Did you have a pleasant nap?" His tone even and indifferent.

"A . . . a nap?" Her voice croaked.

"Yes," Holmes said at length, seemingly engrossed with a stain on his index finger. "You unceremoniously collapsed on my sofa after stating that you had been on your feet all morning, and promptly fell asleep."

"Oh, I," sitting up she buckled forward, " oh, oww." Lestrade encircled her chest.

Holmes frowned. Striding to the hall door he called out, "Watson, come here if you would be so kind."

"Whatever is the matter, Holmes?" His blue eyes caught sight of the slender brunette. "Oh my. Dear girl, what's wrong?" He sat beside her, adjusting his brown suit as he did.

"My ribs hurt and I can't breathe."

"Well now perhaps-"

"Perhaps she just fastened her corset too tight." Holmes interjected, once again taking aim on the far wall.

"Holmes!" Watson glared at him. The detective eyed him and shrugged, tossing the gun into a chair.

Lestrade sounded off in confusion. "Corset?"

Holmes set his gaze on her, drumming a finger on the wall. He leaned into the hall again. "Alice!" Promptly a young girl with dull brown hair appeared in the entry way.

"Sir?"

"Kindly take the lady somewhere where she can attend to her discomfort, then bring her back."

"Yes, Sir."

Holmes rolled his eyes once the two had left the room. "Women." He snorted quietly, stretching himself out in his arm chair.

"I do wish you had been more discrete in identifying her discomfort." Watson sat down opposite. His face showing his distaste in his companion's blunt suggestion.

"How, dear Watson, would you suggest I have done that? Whisper it in her ear?"

Watson huffed. "I admit I don't know, but surely you could have thought of a more tactful way to phrase it."

"Simplicity is best sometimes." Holmes closed his eyes.

Watson changed topics. "So what is she doing here?"

"No idea."

"No clue in which to guide you?"

The detective opened his eyes, his features honed in thought. "That's just it Watson, there are no clues to be had."

Watson started. "None?"

"Nothing. Not one thing about that lady tells me anything of importance." He threw his hands out in frustration. "Except." He trailed off, pressing his fingers against his drawn lips.

"Except? Then you did see something?"

Holmes sighed. "The dress is new as are her shoes and hat. She is also in the habit of using a gun and frequently types."

"Well, that's something."

"It's nothing! It merely suggests that she is from an area where she might need a gun in which to protect herself and she works as a typist, which could fit the profile of hundreds, each one more forgettable than the last. It's the fact that she's absolutely clean of any other identifying marks that make up the only real clue, and that is superficial at best. Observe, she has no mud on her dress, so she didn't ride in a hansom, and shoes are clean, too clean."

"Too clean?"

Another sigh. "They look as if they've never been worn outside, yet she claims to have been on her feet all day."

Watson looked incredulous. "Could she simply have changed shoes?"

"Perhaps, but I doubt it. If she had changed shoes to a pair she's never worn before, where did she put the other set?" He lit a cigarette. Pausing an inch away from his mouth, Holmes shook his head before taking a drag.

"Do you think she is touched in the head? She did seem rather confused."

Holmes shrugged. "Who is to say." A deep breath. "It doesn't fit, Doctor."

"What doesn't?"

"The lady, Watson, she doesn't fit." Watson knitted his brow. "In anything. She doesn't fit into anything." Holmes said, answering before Watson could ask.

"Did you catch her name? Perhaps a relation of hers could shed some light."

"I thought of that, but no, I didn't get her name."

Watson gazed at his partner in some surprise. "You mean she came up unannounced?"

Holmes's face took on the expression of pure confusion. "Yes, but the front door never opened, and I did not hear her on the steps."

Watson's mouth opened, then closed as he processed this new information. His hands went up in defeat. "I'm at a loss."

"As am I, my friend, as am I. Come in." The maid, Alice, opened the door in a shocked blush, clearly having been about to knock. Holmes stared. "Where's the lady?"

Alice decidedly looked at her feet, then shyly back at the detective. "Well, Sir, she's had a fainting spell come over her."

Startled, Holmes's mouth dropped slightly before he spoke. "She fainted?"

Head high, Alice broke into a rush of speech. "It wasn't because of her garment, Sir. It had been too tight for her, but once Mrs. Hudson and I loosened it she asked for the date. We told her. Her eyes went wide as the moon and on the floor she went in a dead faint."

"Where is she now?" Asked Watson.

"On the floor of the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson wanted to know if you would be kind enough to move her to a more suitable location."

Blue eyes met grey. "Of course." Answered Watson.

* * *

Once again Beth Lestrade awoke to find herself lying on the sitting room couch. This time two sets of eyes watched her, one seemingly anxious, the other unreadable.

The first of the pair spoke. "Feeling better, Miss?"

Lestrade cautiously moved herself to half sit, half lean beside the arm of the sofa. "Yes, aside from the headache that is." Her fingers straightening the skirt of her dress, asking questions her mind was currently against acknowledging.

Watson nodded. "Would you care for some tea?" He gestured to a handsome sliver set at his side.

"Yes, please." Lestrade said diminutively, her dark blue eyes glossy. "Thank you." Turning her head instinctively, she met with a steely vision as Holmes scanned her without apology. Taking the cup from Watson, she smiled. "Do I have something on my face, Holmes?"

His piercing eyes locked with hers for a moment, freezing her mind up. "My apologies," he said nonchalantly, breaking the spell.

"I bet."

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Would you mind-"

"Tell me she was lying."

"Beg your pardon?"

"Alice. Tell me the maid was lying about the date." Her voice carried a chill. Lestrade set about studying his face for reaction of any sort.

"My dear, it's the first of June 1889. What did the maid tell you?" Watson asked in a worried manner.

"The same." Lestrade's voice dropping.

Holmes snapped. "Are you right in the head?" Watson and Lestrade fixed him with scathing looks. Ignoring them both, he continued on, "You will tell me your name and what business brings you here, or I'll show you the door. I can't have my time wasted in such a fashion."

Lestrade smiled then proceeded to unload a string of words, not a curse word among them, that by the end of which had Watson in shock and Holmes blushing. "What goes on behind my door when closed is no business of yours to reflect upon." He said coldly.

"So it's perfectly polite for you to over analyse me, but I can't do the same for you?" She asked in a falsely sweet voice. Watson glanced away, suddenly very interested in the wall.

Holmes clenched and unclenched his hands. "Who are you and why are you here?"

A sigh. Lestrade gazed at him imploringly. "My name is Beth Lestrade and I seem to be lost."

Holmes stared at her. "Come again?"

"You heard me."

"Are you a relation of Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard?" Watson asked hesitantly.

Lestrade thought for a moment. "No," she said, watching Holmes carefully, half expecting him to rebuke her answer.

Instead he simply asked, "How are you lost?"

"I don't know how I got here."

"Where? In London? My doorstep? Details, Miss Lestrade, details."

"Fine. I went to bed last night, around 11 p.m., only to wake up standing in your foyer feeling dead on my feet."

An indecipherable pause. "You're wasting my time. If you need a job that badly I believe Mrs. Hudson is in need of a second live in maid."

Lestrade's jaw dropped. Watson started, "Holmes, why on earth-"

"In a moment, Doctor. Miss Lestrade, if you would be so good as to follow the stairs to the foyer you will find a hall way to your right. That leads to the kitchen, and I believe the delightful Mrs. Hudson is there currently." He said, taking Lestrade by the hand and guiding her to the sitting room door.

Lestrade searched his face, trying to read him. Finally she nodded, giving his hand a slight squeeze before leaving his side. Holmes closed the door behind her.

"What are you up to, Holmes? That was a very unusual course of action."

"Indeed it was, Watson. But like I said, something about her isn't right."

"You think she was lying?"

"No."

Watson smiled teasingly. "She is lovely."

"Was she? I didn't notice."

"Then why send her down to Mrs. Hudson?"

His companion slouched against the wall deep in thought, looking mystified with himself. "I have acted on something foreign to me, Watson. I haven't been able to rid myself of it since I first laid eyes on her." Watson raised his brow with a humorous gleam in his eye. Holmes smiled faintly.

"No, Watson."

"What then?"

He sighed, sliding into the armchair. His cherry pipe appearing suddenly, lit and between his lips. "Despair, my friend, complete despair."

Watson smirked. "That is not so unusual."

Holmes smiled briefly. "True. No, Watson, our young lady has it in her manner in dizzying amounts, but why?"

"Perhaps she's lost someone close to her, a parent or a fiancé."

"If that were the case I believe she would have said so." His eyes flickered grimly. Hastily writing out a telegram and sending it off with the pageboy, Holmes sank into darkness. It was all Watson could do to bid his moody friend good day and promise to call on him later, leaving the angular man in a halo of bluish smoke showing no indication he was aware.

_June 11, 1889_

Asleep. The first time she had laid eyes on him in almost two weeks and he was curled up asleep on the settee. Lestrade smiled despite herself. His left hand twitched compulsively by his head. She frowned. Was he dreaming?

Sighing, she pulled the duster out of her newly acquired maid's uniform to start cleaning. She liked this place, it felt and looked how she thought it should. The perpetual scent of pipe tobacco and chemicals overwhelming the senses in a calm, homey way. Scattered newspapers, magazines, volumes upon volumes of scrapbooks and encyclopaedias organized in his own peculiar style lay everywhere. Dim lights gave the place a soft glow, throwing the reds and mahoganies of the study deeper in colour.

Lestrade thought of what the room would become and shuddered; cleaner, organized, touches of twenty-second century technology everywhere, no strange, lingering smells embedded in the furniture. _Or on him,_ she mused.

She had cleaned the room all the way up to the sofa now and couldn't help pausing to study him. It felt strange. First, she had seen him as an old man suspended in time, then watched as he fell back into a twenty-five year old in full glory. She smirked. Now he was thirty-five and just as striking. His hair was considerably darker, almost a black brown, and a bit shorter. Definite lines on his face marked his life as a stressful one, even when at peace. His left arm caught her attention. Dotted and scarred beyond what she had imagined it would have been, she frightened herself in thinking that it suited him.

_Scars on the outside to hide the ones within_. She gently put his shirt cuff down, arranging his rumpled clothes as best she could, and manoeuvring his disreputable robe to cover him better. Lestrade felt a pinch in her heart, _this is who he really is._ Brushing loose strands of hair back into her bun, she quietly moved away to finish the rest of the room, turning when she felt the back of her head burning.

He was on his back staring at her with an unknown fire in his grey eyes. Lestrade felt herself start to blush out of nerves. _He was awake the whole time,_ she thought, slightly embarrassed. Remembering herself, she sat down on the back of the sofa, feather duster dangling in her hand and stared back. _Two can play this game._ Her stubbornness surfacing while the blaze in Holmes's eyes darkened.

For some time the two sat and stared, neither one moving. Holmes's haunted gaze mimicking a candle flame across Lestrade's face did nothing to phase her as she unashamedly did the same. For a moment, she thought she heard notes from a music box, but pushed the notion away knowing full well the room was quiet. Her head fell slightly as disembodied music slowly filled her ears, growing in volume and stealing into her, reminiscent of a touch that made her flesh crawl.

A sharp breath broke through the fog in her mind. She raised her eyes in question, unsure who had made the sound. Holmes was expressionless, his eyes a ghostly fever piercing her. Lestrade paled. Holmes sat up, allowing her to slip down onto the cushion before her balance gave out. She jumped when he reached for her with a handkerchief, pressing it against her lips. Taking the cloth from him in some confusion, Lestrade started when she saw blood.

"It appears you bit your lip."

"Yes, but did I-" Lestrade quieted, shocked to see intense black eyes instead of grey. Uneasiness crept up her back and settled in her stomach. Returning the handkerchief to her lip she left the room without looking back.

_June 17, 1889_

Once again, Holmes had disappeared without a hint to his doings beyond informing Mrs. Hudson he expected to be away for a few days. Lestrade, knowing he was on a case, was itching to try and join him. It made her giddy with awe that she was in _his_ world watching him solve the cases she grew up reading. Currently on break, she sat on the garden stoop, absently staring at nothing in particular, wishing she could follow him.

_Unfortunately, I can't join in because I'm __a woman. _She frowned, only to smile seconds later. _Oh, I bet he'd have a coronary if I showed him up._

"Beth!"

"Ah, duty calls," she said to herself, heading indoors. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson?"

The plump, jolly woman stood just inside the kitchen with a thick package in her arms. Lestrade cast a curious look at it. Clearly it was heavy, for Mrs. Hudson was panting slightly under the strain.

"I don't know why he insists on this, he memorizes it anyway." She said in a huff.

"Memorizes what?"

"Here. Take this." Mrs. Hudson pushed the four inch thick package into Lestrade's arms.

Lestrade grunted. "What's in this?"

"Sheet music."

"Sheet music! Why would anyone need this much sheet music?"

Mrs. Hudson smiled lovingly. "Well, Mr. Holmes is a unique fellow, but I can guarantee some of the best violin solos you've ever heard." The land lady paused. "On second thought, just dump it on the side table here. You can take it up to his rooms after lunch." Mrs. Hudson took her arm. "You are such a lovely girl, Beth. I do hope Mr. Holmes comes to his senses about you."

Lestrade blushed. "You're reading into things, I'm afraid."

"That is nonsense. I've watched you with him. He changes when you're around and it's not because you're a woman either." Mrs. Hudson winked at her.

Lestrade looked pointedly down and sat at the kitchen table. "Really, it's not like that."

"Then what is it like?" asked Mrs. Hudson, sitting across, eyeing the young girl.

Lestrade pursed her lips together, fiddling with her hands. "I don't know." She answered truthfully.

"Do you know what I think?" Lestrade shook her head, stifling a cough. "I think he cares for you, he sees something worthwhile in you."

Lestrade smirked. "He sees a mystery."

Mrs. Hudson smiled at the remark. "Mr. Holmes doesn't take mysteries into his home to stay and work."

"Well, it seems he's made an exception, but I can almost guarantee you it's because he deduced I didn't have anywhere else to go."

Mrs. Hudson's mouth thinned. "I hate to sound rough, Beth, but you're as blind as Mr. Holmes."

"I'm sorry?"

"He's shown everyone the door except for you and Dr. Watson."

Lestrade rose to leave, slightly annoyed. "Perhaps you're right, but it's not to be. It can't be."

_June 24, 1889_

Lestrade stuck her hand in the cool stream waters smiling. She couldn't imagine a better way to spend a clear spring afternoon than lounging by a river shaded by large oak trees. Smoothing her pale blue dress out, she leaned up against the largest tree wriggling her shoe free toes and sighed happily. Her deep blue eyes closed, telling her a nap would be perfect. A rustling beside her caused her to look up. Much to Lestrade's surprise a handsome man with brown hair and warm eyes sat beside her smiling.

"You are a difficult lady to find, Miss Lestrade."

She stared at him, recognizing him, but having forgotten him all the same. "Do I know you?"

The man laughed. "Why am I not surprised. Your attention is at half most of the time isn't it?" He chuckled, catching her annoyed look. "Don't worry, I must confess to being just as guilty as yourself in that regard. Although, usually I at least remember faces." His voice was thoughtful.

"I never said I didn't remember _seeing_ you. But just because I saw someone once, doesn't mean I know who they are."

"Ah, too true, too true. How are you fairing on this particularly fine day, my dear?"

"I'm okay."

The man raised an eyebrow. "Just okay?"

Lestrade cocked her head at him, playfully. "You won't let me get away without answering, will you?"

He flashed a charming grin. "Only if you're sure you don't want to tell me."

Lestrade drew her knees up. "Well, I've recently started working as a maid. The experience is rather new and has me quite tired out."

"House work a bit much?"

"No, not really. My feet are sore by the end of the day and I've felt queasy a few times, but that's all."

The man looked into her face, his eyes kind. "Then what seems to be the trouble?"

Lestrade thought for a moment. "I don't know how to explain it, everything is so . . . different."

"How so?"

Lestrade faced the man. "I'm used to being listened to and to doing things my own way; being my own boss. I don't mind listening to Mrs. Hudson, she's a great lady, but working under her lodger is strange. This whole situation is strange."

"Sounds ominous."

"I thought I knew him pretty well, but I find myself rethinking everything about him and come off scaring myself because I feel like he's lied to me without actually saying anything."

"Do you fancy this lodger?"

"No, but I fancied us being friends. Come to find out he doesn't have friends, and that, unsurprising as it is, kind of, hurt. In fact, I'd be happier if he just straight out ignored me, instead of barking out orders like I was a golden retriever: fetch this, fetch that, hold this, stand still. This is a nightmare," Lestrade put her head in her hands and pushed her hair back. "I'm not even supposed to be here."

The man patted her shoulder gently. "My dear, listen to me. I'm not the wisest of men, but I do know something of the man of which you speak and I think you're exactly where you're supposed to be."

Lestrade frowned. "What on earth for?"

The man gazed up at the sky, seeing it cloudy, he sighed. "Why does God have us anywhere, but to learn."

"Are you a priest?"

He laughed heartily at the question. "Goodness me, no. I'm not nearly religious enough for that profession."

"He's an anti-social, eccentric, crime addicted, drug abuser who gets his kicks from seeing how cold he can make others feel. What's to learn?" She spat.

"Well, I suppose if you knew that you wouldn't be here would you?"

"So now you're going all inscrutable on me are you?"

"No, but I would remind you, as I'm sure you remind him, the world doesn't revolve around that man."

Lestrade laughed. "Good point," her smile faded, "not that it helps." She cupped her hands to catch the tiny droplets of rain that appeared.

"He's just a man, Miss Lestrade, and he does trust you."

Her face had the start of a smile. "Yeah, I know." Lestrade sneezed, which turned into a light hack. She put her hand up to her mouth and coughed properly instead of swallowing it.

"Goodness, we should get you indoors before the weather gets worse."

Lestrade gave a laugh. "You sound like Watson."

"Is that such a bad thing to sound like a doctor when a lady shows signs of a cold?"

"No, just overprotective."

He smiled lightly, his eyes sad. "It's called being a gentleman, Miss Lestrade."

"Do you know Dr. Watson?"

"We've met. I've played Billiards with him before."

"Ah." Lestrade placed her chin on her knees, watching the ripples in the water grow darker.

"Miss Lestrade?"

"Hm? Hey, there's something shiny in the water. Do you see it?"

The man followed her finger with his eyes. "Best leave it where it lies. It's pretty far out and I would hate for you to get soaked."

"Spoil sport. It's not that far out." Lestrade kneeled on the bank and stretched her hand out. "Shoot. I don't think I can reach it."

"Let it alone and come sit back down." He said imploringly.

"In a minute. I almost have it," her fingers now only an inch away. She smiled in triumph upon feeling the cool silver of a necklace, only to gasp in surprise when she lost her balance and tumbled in.

The man jumped to his feet. "Miss Lestrade!"

Lestrade turned on her back, seeing the man's rippled image peering down at her. She moved to stand, but her feet found no bottom. _How deep is this?_

"Miss Lestrade, come back!" Came a muffled shout.

_Well, time to swim back up. No sense giving the guy a heart attack._ The chain caught a snag when she tried swimming forward. _What the?_ Lestrade shifted her attention to her hand.

"Miss Lestrade!" Fainter now.

Lestrade gazed up to look at the man and was shocked to see the surface barely visible. She tugged at the necklace roughly to see if it might come free. _Darn thing._ A cold blanket of water grazed her, sending a shiver over her body.

_**"Little child where did you lose your heart?" **_Someone held her gently from behind, whispering in her ear. _**"The ice that surrounds you will never melt. Pale in beauty, frozen inside out, tears dried on your cheeks for the dead to lick." **_The name "Elizabeth", by the time it reached her ears, could barely be made out although she was sure the man had shouted it as hard as he could. _The man? What man? I was alone . . ._

A hand softly trailed down her face. _**"Tell the truth. You dream of the Reaper at your door, wooing you, leading you off into the night. All you really want is the light, but in truth you crave the dark. Your wings are ripped, thrown aside, the goblins did pick them up to eat in a feast without you. Run little child, away from your soul, lost in the forest of your making." **_

The hand on her neck was ice cold. _**"Knotholes filled with eyes are peering at your door, little ones singing, "'Ring around Beth's neck, pocketbook of death, ashes, ashes she can't move now.'"**_

The hand tightened, twisting slowly with each word. Callously delicate kisses graced her temples, forehead, eyes, cheeks, chin, neck, a pause over her lips accompanied by a sardonic smirk. _**"I want . . ."**_

Lestrade bolted up breathing heavily, her blankets damp from sweat. Running a hand over her face, she gave into a fit of coughing as her fingers compulsively checked her throat. She found nothing out of the ordinary except her quickened pulse. She inhaled deeply, forcing back another spasm.

_Oh man, what a dream. That voice again, the fourth time this month. I don't know if I can get back to sleep after that._ Checking the alarm clock, she groaned. _Three am. Beautiful, just beautiful._

Untangling herself from the sheets, something small falling off the bed caught her eye. Reaching down Lestrade picked up a long silver chain with a petite gold band adorning it. Turning up the light to see better, Lestrade decided it was a woman's ring, a wedding ring more than likely. It was a plain little thing against the intricate links of the silver, but charming none the less.

_ A well worn ring too, it's all scuffed up. I wonder._ Taking the band off the necklace, Lestrade slipped it on her ring finger. _Huh, it fits. It's kind of pretty, wonder where it came from. I should ask Holmes. _ She stole a glance at the clock again and smirked. _The freak is probably still up. _Thinking for a moment, Lestrade got up. _Wasn't going to sleep anyway._ Throwing on a simple light pink day dress, she set out for the great detective's sitting room.

Sure enough, she found him reclining in an arm chair violin in hand. She stopped in the door way and listened, enchanted. Smooth, gentle notes floated through the air in a caressing manner. Her heart suddenly felt light and calm. A dreamy hue filtered over the air, altering sound itself. Deftly the song morphed into a cascade of colour speaking of the player's bohemian air, hinting at wild thoughts of unknown origin. Then quite abruptly, she couldn't call it music anymore. It was rushed, cool, vibrant in its need to spit up whatever came to mind without hindrance, without consequence.

Lestrade leaned against the door frame and stared at the ceiling, letting the exotic sounds carry her into the wilderness. A frightening pace had been set, twisting, changing, sensual in some spots, borderline erotic and distant the next. Higher and higher the notes rose into the room, deep and low whines touching every nerve. The tune grew heavy with a spiritual prowess, flattening Lestrade to the wall, her senses enamoured. An unconscious gasp escaped her lips, a blush arose on her pale face, still he played on. His bow arm flying furiously, straining the strings. Every movement embellishing unrestrained presence of soul that might have startled both of them had they been fully aware. Finally, Lestrade gave a cry that either he couldn't ignore or this was the first he heard of her.

Holmes put down the instrument and turned to find the sleepless girl sitting against the wall in a slump. Her lips bright and moist, a red line running down her chin. The Stradivarius fell to the floor as Holmes leapt out of his chair, "Heavens, Miss Lestrade!" Gently he gathered her to him, and with a touch of delicacy dabbed at her mouth with a cloth. "Dear lady, are you ill and didn't say anything?"

In reply Lestrade held out the ring and necklace. "I dreamt I found it in a stream only to wake and find it with me." Her voice was quiet and liquid. "It fit. Holmes, Sherlock, it fit. It fits, but it's not mine." Tears forming in her eyes. Holmes backed off a bit, weary of her until a fit came over her and crimson filled the hand he held to her mouth.

"Mrs. Hudson!" He bellowed, moving Lestrade to the settee, then taking off at a run down the stairs to wake the landlady. "Mrs. Hudson!"

* * *

Dr. Strutherford frowned, his balding head wrinkling. He always thought it something awful when a young person fell ill, especially young ladies. The girl lying in front of him was no exception, beautiful even with a deathly complexion upon her. He sighed, this was difficult. What was he to tell them? Sorry, I can't do anything for her? No, that would be cruel. He had a daughter around her age, vibrant, full of life, looking forward to having a family of her own. It would be a cold day for him if a doctor told him they couldn't cure his Emily. He watched the steady rise and fall of his patient's chest, knowing it wouldn't stay that way for long.

Finally, Dr. Strutherford turned to the younger man leaning on the mantel. His eyes were dark and his aquiline face bore the unmistakable look of a troubled man. The doctor thought his heart was going to break when the young man met his gaze; he knew. He knew her situation was grave. The man broke contact, his eyes finally settling on the lady. A plump, older woman with a kind face sniffled from an arm chair, bringing the doctor out of his thoughts.

_Might as well get this over with._ He sighed and addressed Holmes. "I'm really sorry, young man, but there's nothing more I can do for your wife."

The surprise lasted less than a fraction of a second as Holmes spotted the ring Lestrade had shown him earlier still on her finger. Mrs. Hudson took that moment to excuse herself, choking back a sob. Holmes watched her leave, then turned back to the doctor playing with the silver chain absentmindedly. "Nothing?"

Dr. Strutherford shook his round head. "I truly am sorry. A bit of fresh air might help, but I would be extremely wary of moving her. I fear the shock alone might be the end of her."

"But it is consumption?"

The old doctor massaged his forehead. "Near as I can tell, but it seems like the worst of it hit her all at once which is strange."

"Unless she's been sick and didn't know it."

"Ah, that could be the case. But I thought, being married, you would have noticed a decline in her health." Holmes curled his lip into a tight smile, bordering on thinly veiled repulsion. "Peaceful sleep is best-"

"Is it?"

The doctor turned pink. "Ah, um, sorry, that was rather horrible phrasing wasn't it. I just meant that her rest should be as undisturbed as possible."

"Easily done."

"That's good. Unfortunately, all that remains to be done is to wait and see what happens."

"Thank you for coming out so late, Dr. Strutherford."

"You're quite welcome. I'm just sorry there wasn't more I could do; such a lovely girl."

"Goodnight, Doctor."

"Goodnight." He said sadly, leaving the hard-faced young man staring at the sleeping girl.

Holmes flopped down in a chair once positive the doctor was gone and retrieved his magnifying glass from the floor. His keen grey-blue eyes analysing everything he could about the silver chain. Made from real silver, the links formed tiny knots, and it was obviously a woman's necklace. Minute scratching spoke of nothing except that it wasn't new. He thought it strange that Lestrade should mention finding it in a stream when there were none close by. An image of the Thames River came to mind.

"Yes, that sounds much more likely." He muttered to himself. _It would explain how she fell ill so quickly too, but she's been here all day. Supposing though, that her statement is completely true._ His thoughts trailed off, venturing into other areas.

His eyes suddenly darted to Lestrade. In an instant he was kneeling beside the sofa taking up her cold hand to examine the ring she wore. On impulse, he felt her other hand and forehead, and found them cold. Holmes narrowed his eyes, extremely annoyed with himself and the doctor when he realized that Lestrade had been and was still barefoot. Quickly removing the ring, he fetched a couple of blankets from the clean linen downstairs and threw them over her.

Once again, he curled into his usual armchair with magnifying glass in hand, this time probing the gold band. His face started out impassive, drawn up in intense concentration only to have pure, unfiltered shock show through.

_Where and how did she get this?_ Forgetting himself, he barked, "Miss Lestrade! Miss Lestrade!" He knelt by her again and gently shook her. _I must know._

She took a deep, staggered breath, and gazed at him questioningly. "Holmes? What is it?"

Holmes looked deep into the blue of her eyes, voice ardent. "Where exactly did you find this ring?"

"In a stream."

"Details, now."

Lestrade pursed her lips, half thinking, half forcing back a cough. "The stream was fairly wide and surrounded by large oak trees. I don't know where it was, I told you it was a dream."

Holmes's face morphed into an expression that could have been either disappointment or frustration. "A dream." He said blandly, drumming his fingers on the settee.

"I was dreaming about a man, he-" Lestrade began choke, coughing strenuously into her hands. Holmes handed her a clean rag he had brought up with him, his arm holding her up as she let loose into the cloth.

Lying her back down, he spoke tenderly. "My apologies, Miss Lestrade, I did not mean to be so demanding of you."

Lestrade waved it off. "It's all right, you're just being you." Holmes smirked. "Anyway, what did the doctor say? I dosed off."

Holmes gave her a kind smile. "Dr. Strutherford believes you have an acute case of consumption. The prognosis was not good."

Lestrade smiled faintly. "I thought not. What did you find on that ring?"

"Nothing of real importance."

Lestrade sighed, smiling playfully. "You're horrible you know that?"

"I do now. Please, my apologies again for waking you, do try and sleep."

She watched him sit back by the fire. "Are you going to play your violin again?"

He glanced at her. "I had planned on it." Picking up the Stradivarius, he began to create a gentle, soothing song, the sound of which made Lestrade's eyelids start to droop.

She smiled drowsily. "That's beautiful."

"Thank you."

Her eyes closed, as happier dreams came to mind and claimed her.

_July 1, 1889_

"You look awful." Lestrade said to the face in the mirror. This illness was driving her up the wall, there was no conceivable way this was tuberculosis. She felt fine and was perfectly normal, until an attack came round, then she would end up doubled over feeling like she had severe asthma. The attacks always seemed to come when she exerted energy at length, like naught but ten minutes ago.

Ten minutes ago Lestrade had been out in the garden folding laundry, when a gangly man with fire red hair and blotchy face to match sauntered up to her attempting to flirt. He had winked at her, then proceeded to talk in so heavy an Irish accent she could barely make sense of him. She had, however, caught, references to a job and church, and his hazel-blue eyes continuously fondling her chest. Lestrade had snapped when he flashed a wide grin, showing off yellowed teeth, and started mouthing off in the most un-lady like manner she could. The man had thought it all a thrill and was smiling until she started coughing.

Lestrade had known what was going to happen before it started. A numbing cold had slowly crept up her body, washing over her, making her lightheaded. But she had continued shouting at the man until it became too difficult to do anything except cough. When the Irishman finally noticed the blood dripping from her hand he blanched and ran off, leaving her on the ground. Luckily, Alice had come out with some freshly laundered sheets to hang. The startled girl had dropped the basket on the stoop, called Mrs. Hudson, and rushed to her aid. Now here she was in the washroom cleaning herself up, muttering about lack of proper medicine.

Mrs. Hudson had thrown a fit, blaming Holmes for allowing her to do a few chores when she should have been resting. Holmes had been his usual politely curt self and proceeded to explain in few words that her fit had not been caused by hanging linen, nor was it necessary to keep her confined because what she had was more than likely a genetic tendency. He had also suggested that her attacks were heart related, not consumption as Dr. Strutherford suggested.

_Great, a heart condition, just what I need. _Lestrade reached for a towel to dry her hands and gave an abrupt scream. "Holmes!" She marched into his rooms where he glanced up briefly from his lunch, bread half buttered.

"You sound agitated."

Lestrade levelled her eyes. "No shit, Sherlock. What the hell is this and why was it hanging on the towel holder?" Clutched in her hand was a leather ball hanging from black string.

Holmes looked affronted, from her outburst or her presumptuous invasion of his washroom was anyone's guess. Despite that, he smiled when he saw what she was holding out. "Ah! That, Miss Lestrade, is a shrunken head from South America. An appreciative client sent it to me after I helped him out of a rather sticky mess concerning an unusual murderer. It was a queer case with some singular points of interest."

Lestrade grimaced. "I'm sure, but why was it in the washroom?"

"I put it there to dry out."

"Dry out? Wasn't it dry to begin with?"

"No, not completely. It had begun to drip and I rather not have my papers ruined."

"It was sent to you fresh?!"

"Do try and calm yourself, the last thing you need is another fit."

"Who was this?" Forcefully.

"That," nodding to the head dangling from her hand, "was the murderer."

"What? How? Who?"

"Miss Lestrade, give that here and sit down." Holmes took the head from her and tossed it into an empty tea cup.

"I'm fine, Holmes. I'm not going to fall down dead."

"I should hope not, but your tendency to over react does not speak in your favour."

"Fine." Lestrade sat at the table, watching Holmes resume his meal. Then after a while she asked, "do you still have that ring and chain?"

"Yes." A newspaper appeared in front of him, blocking her.

She waited. "Well?"

"The chain belongs to a well to do woman, probably in her late twenties, and the links are a French design."

"What about the ring?" A pause. "Holmes? Holmes."

"What?"

"What about the ring?"

Annoyance graced his features. "What does it matter, Miss Lestrade?"

"Hey, I found it and I want to know about it."

"What did you think of it?"

"I thought it was definitely a woman's wedding ring, well worn, like whoever owned it never took it off."

"My sentiments exactly." He went back to his paper.

Lestrade's blood boiled. "I hate it when you're like this." She snatched the paper from him. "Why bother being polite at all? It just makes you more of an ass."

"Mind yourself, Miss Lestrade." He said distinctly, eyes flashing.

"Forgive me for speaking my mind." She said hotly. "It's not like you can claim ownership to that ring, you know."

"I can and I will."

"What? How?"

"I knew the owner."

"Knew? Past tense. They're dead?"

"Yes."

"How do you know who it belonged to?"

Holmes raked a finger back and forth across the table."If you had bothered to use your eyes you would have notice the name inscribed on the interior of the band."

"What was the name?"

His steel eyes glinted, once again allowing Lestrade a glimpse of something within him that froze her to the spot. A tingle shot up her spine. Her hands went numb. _Oh no, not again._ She trembled, her heart starting to pound. "Uh, Holmes."

"What now?" He spat.

Lestrade opened her mouth to speak, only to have Holmes dash around the table and pour a sip of brandy down her throat after seeing her pale. She never had the chance to swallow the liquid. Her body lurched suddenly, casting her to the floor, taking the table cloth along for the ride. A warm tingling sensation spread throughout her body, dissipating into a cool numb. Lestrade was dimly aware of Holmes calling out in alarm.

It's like a baby created the world. I can't see, nor can I talk. I hear the words spoken to me and open my mouth to reply, only to gurgle instead. There is a voice in the room, but I can't place it. A rush of panic overtakes me. I know I'm crying, and I just realized I can't move. Spasms course through my every nerve. What's this within me that threatens me so? I feel my life slipping, consciousness is lifting me into the unknown, except it won't let me go. Constant rocking, and suddenly I can feel damp carpet beneath my finger tips. The pressure builds, my mouth fills and swallowing only hurts. My blouse is soaked through, clinging to my skin as it pulls from me.

_**Open your eyes.**_

I see Holmes gazing down at me. He's holding me, talking to me, but I can't hear him. I have never seen him look this way, nor has he ever held me as tightly as he does now. His eyes are as blue as the winter sky. Has he always looked so haunted? I want to touch his face, but I can't make myself perform the action.

_**Holmes had the knife.**_

This last thought entered my mind in alarming strength. What knife? Taking my eyes from his I glance down and this time I know I screamed aloud. I hadn't noticed before, but I was covered in dark red blood; my blood. I also then noticed that Holmes wasn't so much holding me in comfort as he was holding me down for Watson, who was obviously stitching up a massive cut. Oddly enough, the fact that I was laying there exposed to all the world didn't enter my mind once. Of course, whilst screaming my head off, I was also trying to figure out what "Holmes had the knife" meant.

There have been a few points in my life where I wished terribly that I was blind. This was one of them. A sharp prick on my left arm caught my attention, Holmes had just shot me up with something, I suspected cocaine, but it calmed me down enough to note the butter knife at his side. I've seen murder weapons less bloody than that knife. It was then I started wondering how all this had happened. My last memory was feeling a coughing fit sneaking up on me and Holmes pouring brandy down my throat in an attempt to quell it. As well as he meant by it, I do mean to lay into him about purchasing cough syrup. Coughing and attempting to swallow brandy at the same time is no picnic.

Holmes had the knife. It made no sense. Had he done this? Was he tired of me and confident enough in his reputation to make an attempt on my life? God knows he's a show off, and you couldn't get more showy than this on such short notice and have it written off as attempted suicide. But then, how long had Watson been there? What had he seen when he walked in? For some reason, my ears decided they wanted to work again, or maybe, I had been able to hear the whole time and my constant screams had made me deaf.

"Hold her still, Holmes. This is difficult enough without her moving so much."

"I'm doing my best, Watson." I had broken free of his arms for an instant.

"Holmes."

"_Le condamner._" My arms were now pinned behind me, and a sharp pain sent my nails into his thigh. "Ow_! Femme fichue_ . . . Watson, will you hurry up!"

"I'm almost done. I just need to tie off this last suture . . . and done."

Hearing Holmes swearing in French would have been extremely entertaining to me had I been able to do anything except lay with my head against his chest. I felt warm water run over me and realized that Watson was washing the blood away.

"How on earth did this girl manage such a grievous injury?" The tried doctor inquired with a heavy breath. "With you by her side no less."

Holmes sighed, his posture shifting. "Self inflicted."

"Surely you jest."

"I do not." I dug my hand into his pant leg when I heard him say that, felt him flinch too. "One moment she's warning me that a fit is upon her and the next she was on the floor, the deed done before I could act."

"Heavens! I never thought she would be of the sort."

"Nor I, my friend. Have Mrs. Hudson fetch the leather straps from the coat closet will you?"

"You intend to tie her down, then?"

"Yes. I rather feel I must after this incident."

"But must you use those awful straps?"

"It was their purpose." There was a tinge of cold humour in Holmes's voice, but not much.

Watson sounded flustered. "Well, yes, but I don't suppose _those_ people imagined you'd use them to mind a suicidal lady, would they?"

Holmes chuckled lightly. "No, I don't think this is what they had in mind, but it's how I shall use them."

Watson mumbled to himself in turning. "Better than no use."

"My blushes, Watson."

"Er, sorry, Holmes. Just trying to-"

"I know. The situation is not a light one."

Watson didn't reply, probably saying more in his manner than he could find words for. I don't know for sure, because I didn't see him. I couldn't see him, my eyes refused to leave that knife, but I could hear his heavy tread take him out of the room. After a few minutes, Holmes slipped his arms under me and gently lifted me off the floor. Yet again he placed me on the settee, this time wrapping me up in a blanket as my soiled clothes had been cut away by Dr. Watson. He didn't speak as he arranged me on the sofa and I didn't try to talk, having no idea what to say anyway. I did, however, take hold his hand as it brushed mine and held fast. I didn't care that it was Holmes, I just really didn't want to be alone. I guess he understood, for he sat on the floor beside me, his thumb rubbing the back of my hand staring at the far wall.

He spoke so quietly, I wasn't sure I heard him at all. The first had been in French, but what he said after was crystal clear although just as soft: "Don't do this again." I broke down after that, not sobbing, I hurt too much to do that, but I had tears down my cheeks. Nothing I could say would convince him I wasn't a danger to myself, and that tying me down wasn't necessary. So, I did the one thing that popped into my mind to try and show him I hadn't meant for this to happen, or at the very least thank him. I brought his hand to my lips and kissed it. He wasn't looking at me. He hadn't look my way once the whole time, nor did he say anything else, but he didn't pull away either.

_**Does it hurt much, little child? I'm really sorry he did that to you.**_

_ Who? Holmes? He didn't do this._

_**Oh my, believing in him are you? The truth must be so very hard for you. Of course it is, it's hard when someone you trust takes advantage of you like that.**_

_ What are you talking about? Holmes didn't do anything._

_**Didn't he? I'll leave you to think about it. You're a smart girl, you'll understand soon enough.**_

_**

* * *

  
**_

Sherlock Holmes stood in front of the full length mirror in his bedroom, adjusting his waistcoat and tie. His face reflecting one who was deep in thought, his eyes occasionally darting to Watson who sat on the edge of the bed, staring dejectedly off into nothingness.

"You handled yourself admirably this afternoon, Watson."

"Did I, Holmes? That poor girl."

Holmes cast a glance over his shoulder. "You did all you could. It seems that Miss Lestrade is as you said, disturbed."

"Come man, nothing but a straight answer if you will, what _happened_?"

Holmes ceased fiddling with his clothes and faced Watson. "We were having a heated discussion-"

"Holmes, I'm surprised at you! You knew she wasn't well."

Holmes held up a hand. "I beg you, Watson, let me finish, then you may have words. As I was saying, we were having a heated discussion over placement of a shrunken head and ownership of a ring and chain she found."

Watson stared at him wide eyed, then blinked. "Found the washroom's chief resident did she?"

"Yes, she didn't find it very amusing."

"I should think not. You mentioned a ring and a chain."

"I did. She woke in the middle of the night some days ago, said she had found the set on the floor, and brought them to me to see if I could make anything of them."

"I assume you did."

"Correct, but she suffered her first episode that night -morning really- and I didn't get the chance to closely examine them until the doctor left. Miss Lestrade has asked me on two occasions about the ring, the first being on that night, the other earlier today. Both times I have been reluctant to answer her inquiries because the information is, quite frankly, none of her business. She, obviously, did not agree with me on that point, and slowly came into the start of a fit -her second for today- which promised to be terrible as she collapsed almost immediately; taking the table cloth and dishes with her I might add."

"Yes, I saw them upon the floor, quite a mess."

Holmes gave a small shudder. "That, Watson, is a very large understatement. I had attempted to slip her some brandy in hopes of putting colour back in her cheeks, in effect calming her and therefore avoid the fit. But I admit that as fast as I was her reaction was faster still. The mistake I made was not trying to catch her. You must ask yourself, Watson, can a girl in the midst of such a paralysing reaction injure herself purposefully in such a fashion? That is what I have been dwelling on this last hour."

"If you think it was an accident, then why the restraints?"

"To avoid her further injury should she have another episode. I do not, as she thinks, believe her to be suicidal."

"Then how do you explain such a large injury? If she had simply cut herself on the way down I could understand. But, Holmes, that wound was quite deep."

"That it was, and I have a theory as to why."

"Let's hear it."

"I believe she latched onto the knife unintentionally as she reached out to try and steady herself. You have never seen her in the middle of a fit, Watson, she tends to fall rigid with her hands clasped to her, unconscious of doing so."

"So it's your theory that she unknowingly had the knife in her hand, clasped her hands to her body like she always does, but force of motion and the table working against her managed to produce the damage she sustained?"

"In essence. The wound was small compared to what could have been, but as you said, quite deep. Yet it was jagged in a way that suggested something other than a straight force, which explains the large amount of blood loss."

"Actually, her nicking a fairly good sized artery did that."

"Yes, of course"

Watson gazed at Holmes curiously. "I would like to ask you something, but I don't think you will answer me."

"Never hurts to try. What is it you wish to know?"

"Are you sure you don't fancy the girl? I only ask because I returned to find you on the floor beside her, holding her hand, and if I noted correctly, stroking it with your thumb."

Holmes looked at his friend. "Your eyes did not lie to you, except for one thing."

"What's that?"

"She had hold of _my_ hand. I did not instigate contact."

Watson threw up his hands. "Same difference, Holmes."

"No, Watson, I don't fancy her in the slightest."

"Then why did you keep her? For that is essentially what you did by having Mrs. Hudson hire her. And I know you are paying her medical bills, maids don't make the salary she would need to keep up with an illness such as this and Mrs. Hudson, even with your way of making amends for taxing her so, doesn't either. I ask you again, why?"

"Because she doesn't exist."

"Pardon?"

"She doesn't exist, Watson. You yourself noted a faint resemblance to our Inspector Lestrade upon first meeting the young lady, as did I. In fact, I knew she was lying about being a relation of his. The telegram I sent off that day was to inquire for record of a Miss Elizabeth Lestrade born in the last thirty years or so, not just here, but in France and the States. As I'm sure you've noted that her accent is not a British one, but American. Upon receiving a reply, I was a little surprised to learn that there is no record anywhere of a young woman by that name."

"But how do you know she was lying about being related? The name could have simply been made up."

"You're quite right, Watson, but there are too many minute details to ignore. While our Lestrade is sallow in complexion, something the lady does not suffer from-"

"Thank God."

Holmes smiled. "Quite. There is something in the shape of her face that hints of him, only years younger and better cared for. She has his slightly turned up nose, only thinner-"

"Thank heavens she didn't get his eyes. I should prefer soft eyes on a lady."

"I have to agree with you on that."

"Let's see, Miss Lestrade's eyes are more of a cobalt blue are they not?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"Any other points?"

"Yes, but those are the main superficial ones. The rest tend to deal with mannerisms I suspect might be genetic."

"Then how is there no record of her? She has to have been born to someone."

"Very true, Watson. She can't have appeared out of thin air, but for some reason I cannot shake the feeling that is exactly what she did."

"And the ring that started this whole mess?"

"Ah, yes, the ring. I had wondered if you forgot."

"Was Miss Lestrade claiming ownership to it against you?"

"No, not really. She merely wished me to tell her that which she did not see."

"Which was?"

"A name, inscribed on the inside of the band."

Watson frowned. "An innocent request enough, why not just tell her?"

"Because I felt the knowledge would excite her into spending energies which she could not afford, and I did not want to deal with the incessant questioning she was sure to engage in."

"Would you consider telling me the name?"

Holmes was silent for a moment, then pulled open his top dresser drawer, removing from it the ring in question. He handed it to Watson without a word. The doctor gave it a careful look over, giving a start as he read the name.

"My goodness! Holmes, was this woman your-"

"Yes."

"How on earth did Miss Lestrade come across it? I assume you were not in possession of this ring until now?"

"No, I was not. I don't know how she came by it, because I believe she's telling the truth so far as she knows it."

"It doesn't make any sense."

Holmes smiled. "No, my dear doctor, it doesn't."

Watson handed the ring back to Holmes, who returned it to the drawer and locked it. With a friendly slap on Watson's back, the two men headed back down to assist in what would be an awful cleaning task.

_July 8, 1889_

A week had past and still they kept her tied down. She had only suffered one attack since then and it had been prompted by the appearance of Sherlock Holmes, in all his arrogant glory, sticking his head in to ask a question of her, then taking off in the middle of her answer. After really only having Alice to talk to as Mrs. Hudson couldn't keep herself from crying around her, Lestrade had been pleased to see the detective, until that instant at least. Dr. Watson had been in to check on her numerous stitches every other day, but he said very little concerning anything other than her health. Her breathing was more laboured, but Watson had been confidant it had nothing to do with her cut, which she supposed was good. But the fact still remained that she was bored out of her mind. She had been dream free as well. Whatever little voice she thought she heard hadn't been lying when he said he'd leave her to think.

She guessed it was in the wee hours of the morning when she heard footsteps in the hall outside her door. "Mr. Holmes?" She called out. The idea did occur to her that it might be a burglar, but she quickly dismissed it due to her belief that Holmes's rooms were a walking death trap in the dead of night and one would have to be crazy to attempt them.

Her door opened to the tall, slender silhouette of a man. "Miss Lestrade? Are you in need of assistance?"

She smiled. "I was wondering if you would untie me from this bed. I'm sick of looking at the same four walls."

Holmes regarded her carefully. "For a bit, but I will not have any rows from you. I would never hear the end of it if your stitching were to come undone or another fit befall you."

"I promise I won't start anything, just please."

"Very well." As Holmes leaned over her to untie a strap she caught the very distinct scent of chemicals oh him.

"Another late night experiment?"

"Ah, no. I finished my latest chemical analysis few hours ago and have been going through the sheet music I ordered since then."

"What time is it anyway?" Upon trying to sit up, Lestrade quickly realized there were benefits to laying down, the pain wasn't as great.

"1:49 a.m., or thereabout." Gently lifting Lestrade to her feet, supporting her in case her legs should give after a week of disuse.

"Huh, not as late as I thought it would be." She coughed.

"Miss Lestrade?"

"I'm fine."

"Are you positive? Perhaps this should wait until you're more rested."

Lestrade chuckled. "I'll willingly rest anywhere other than this room."

"The sitting room then."

"Works for me." She tried taking a step, but Holmes scooped her up instead. "Uh, Holmes?"

"You will I'm sure pardon me, Miss Lestrade, but this will be much faster than you attempting to walk on your own and has the least chance of re-injury."

"Unless you drop me."

Holmes eyed her. "I assure you that won't happen."

As good as his word, they made it to the sitting room without incident. Holmes set Lestrade in one of the arm chairs, drawing a blanket round her shoulders. She leaned back, resting her head on the side. Holmes sat across from her, stretching his long legs in front of him, simultaneously plucking a briarwood pipe from the hearth. Lestrade watched his graceful movements in silent adoration, memorizing the sight of the man and his pipe. The almost childish way he dug into the toe of his Persian slipper for the tobacco to meticulously packing down the shag, finally lighting it with a match. Her mouth curved into a sad, yet thoughtful smile as he waved the flame out.

"I'm sorry, Holmes."

"What for? Nothing that has transpired was any fault of yours." Pale smoke rising from his lips, taking fanciful forms in the air.

"Maybe not, but I feel like I've signed your life away."

Holmes knitted his brow. "I believe I would be aware if that occurred."

Lestrade's face fell, her voice quiet. "You would, wouldn't you? And you probably wouldn't say a thing. Oh God, what have I done."

"This is really too much, Miss Lestrade. What you are saying is confounding at best, what do you want me to make of it?"

"Nothing. I shouldn't have opened my mouth."

"But you did, as always. Because of the state of your health, I have been inclined to let pass this habit of yours providing you've always made sense. You have now reached the proverbial glass ceiling, I will have no more of this."

"Because of my health? You mean to tell me that you believed I was ill from the get go?"

Holmes levelled with her. "Healthy women do not collapse without warning. I admit I suspected you of suffering from a form of brain fever manifesting itself in delusions, and I am

not entirely convinced otherwise, which is one reason why I've been lax on propriety where you concerned." The pipe hung from his lips, his grey eyes pointing to her nightdress.

Lestrade's eyes flashed."Why you arrogant-" She sat up.

"Come now, it's perfectly believable that a person suffering from delusions would have an idea of their name, and-"

"Wait, an idea of their name?"

"There is no record of an Elizabeth Lestrade having been born in the last thirty years. I would ask you your real name, except I don't-"

Lestrade let out a frustrated groan. "You nosey Dick! Just because there's no record of it, doesn't mean it's not true."

"Granted. The more rural parts of America aren't likely to have the best records. It is possible that I simply overlooked them, or they were written up in a place I never thought to search."

"It's the latter. You'll never find it, so don't even try."

"Sure on that?"

"Positive. It'd take you a little over two hundred years to find any record to my existence."

"That long?"

"That long."

Holmes smirked. "Well then, I suppose I should start by asking for your real name."

Lestrade rubbed her forehead. "Quit mocking me. The answer isn't going to change, Holmes, deal with it."

He let loose a stream of smoke. "Very well."

"Stop staring."

"Staring, Miss Lestrade?"

"Yes, staring. I can't think when you look at me like that."

"What did I say about your delusional manner of speech."

"Oh, shut it." Lestrade threw a pillow at him, knocking the pipe out of his hand and scattering its contents. "You were staring and you know it."

His eyes narrowed where his pipe fell. "That was highly uncalled for."

"So is a lot of the crap you pull." She drew in an uneasy breath, clutching the blanket ends to her chest. "You need to quit fighting me."

"I think it's time I returned you to your room, I fear this outing has been too much for you." Holmes stood and held his hand out to her. Lestrade knocked it away.

"I'm fine. You're just angry and want me gone."

Holmes snorted. "Quite right, but you're also pale and breathing erratically. I could not consider myself a decent gentleman if I stood by and did nothing to aid you."

"Holmes, more often than not, you're a gentleman in the most sarcastic sense of the word. I'll be just as pale and winded in that room as I am here." She started wheezing, trying to swallow.

"Drink this."

Lestrade took the glass and sneered at it."You need cough syrup." She said between breaths, downing it in one gulp only to erupt into a fit of coughing. The glass fell from her hand and shattered. Red droplets started forming in the corners of her mouth.

"Miss Lestrade, you must fight this. Sit up and breathe slowly." He pushed her hunched form back into the chair and held in place. "It will be all right, try for slow breaths."

A gurgle issued forth from her, followed seconds later by a steady flow of burgundy trailing down into her nightdress. Holmes yanked the handkerchief from his waistcoat, attempting to remove the blood from her face. Lestrade managed a small gulp and pressed his cloth covered hand to her mouth. Their eyes met briefly before her gagging sent another gush past his fingers, spilling into her lap and down his shirt-sleeve. Overcome by sudden horror, Holmes instinctively pulled his hand away, staring wide eyed at the red mess in his hand.

"It's cold! My God, Elizabeth-"

"I know." She half mouthed, half tried to say as her body repeated the vile process a third and fourth time. Eventually, Lestrade collapsed within the chair completely exhausted, her skin shimmering with beads of perspiration. Her normally pink lips were moist and unnaturally bright. Giving the soiled handkerchief up as lost, Holmes used his ruined sleeve to dab her face. He felt her gaze and forced himself to meet it. Lestrade's deep blue eyes were glossy, dull, and full of an intensity only the mad and the feverish were blessed with.

"My chest hurts. It's not over." Her voice was dry and cracked. She twitched. "I can't stop it."

"It will stop on its own, like has, try to remain calm." He kneeled in front of her as she curled up in the chair.

Lestrade shook her head, hair falling in her eyes. "No, no-" a gulp, "you're wrong. You're wrong-"

"Miss Lestrade, you need calm yourself. Everything will be fine."

She ran her eyes over him and smiled teasingly. "Eyes and brains, Holmes." He graced her with a soft smile in return.

Her smile faded, her eyes rolled back and she slipped forward. He caught her by the shoulders, her head against his chest. She whimpered, choking on her own breath and spitting out blood. The sound of her gasp did it. Holmes pulled her the rest of the way out of the chair and embraced her, his gaze disturbingly vacant. Lestrade leaned into him, her hand clinging to his arm as she tried fighting the urge to cough. Choosing to focus on his heart beat rather than the tightening in her stomach, she barely noticed the icy fluid appearing on their clothes. In the depths of her mind she was aware of a retching sound, but latched onto the steady beat in her ears and the warm arms around her. Lestrade closed her eyes and started rubbing her thumb on his arm. Turning her face into him, the familiar scent of soap and pipe tobacco filled her lungs. She smiled, the mix of fragrances washing over her bringing in a calming peace she hadn't felt for a while. Her breathing eased, and she dared hooking the fingers of her other hand through a belt-loop on his slacks. His body stiffened from the blatant contact, then shrank when the young woman's coughing ceased.

_**From the overflow of the heart . . . he has killed you, child.**_

_ He never touched me._

_**The ring on your finger suggests otherwise.**_

_ What ring?_

_**The one he placed on your hand, of course. Didn't you see him?**_

_ No._

_**Why not?**_

_ Because I left my body at the door._

_

* * *

_

_A/N January 2010_

_Minor changes to select sentences, fixed spelling and punctuation._

_French phrases translated from English by way of an online translator. "Le condamner"- damn it. "Femme fichue"- damn woman._

_"Overflow of the heart" is a direct reference to Luke 6:45 NIV.  
_

_"Refuge of my hardened heart" line is a lyric from "Hymn", Much Afraid (1997), Jars of Clay._

_"Music of the dead", "left my body at the door", and the like are references to "Dead Man's Party", Dead Man's Party (1985), Oingo Boingo._

_Title is from a song of the same name off the Top Gun (1986) soundtrack, sung by Marietta Waters.  
_


	3. A Little Thing Called Life

_September 17, 2104_

Beth Lestrade stormed up the seventeen steps to the sitting room of 221b Baker Street fuming, her lips pressed into a thin line. Sherlock Holmes followed close behind talking at her in a manner that was more curt than tactful. She narrowed her eyes malevolently, silently wishing he would stumble down the stairs instead of treading on her back like he was. Lestrade allowed herself a small, sadistic grin at the idea of the World's Greatest Detective losing his balance on his own step.

_He really would get his way if that happened,_ venom filling her mind, _I'd pay attention to him long enough to laugh at him._

Her smile arched into a cold curl as Holmes invaded her line of sight by blocking the door with his lean frame. His eyes glowed, genial sarcasm barely masking the unmistakable look of worn patience. Lestrade folded her arms and looked past him, her desire to hit him fuelled by the arrogance in his stance.

"Lestrade, do come to your senses about this, it can't have been real. I would not have forgotten something of that magnitude, and John most assuredly would have written about it."

"I wake up with a red line down my front and you tell me I was just dreaming?!" Her hands flew up in protest, coming to rest on her hips in near fists.

"You know as well as I do that there have been cases of dreams causing physical manifestations-" He was attempting to placate her, but his affect was nothing short of condescending.

"And this is just one of them." She pushed past him into the airy room, forcing him against the doorframe.

"Exactly."

Lestrade turned to him as he shut the door, fixing him with a piercing stare, her eyes more violet than blue. Holmes returned a questioning raise of the eyebrows to her sudden scrutiny and lack of verbal assault. He had yet to let go of the doorknob.

"Who is Violet S. Holmes?"

What ever he had been expecting her to say, that wasn't it. Surprise briefly registered in his cool grey eyes before his usual passiveness took over. "Where did you get that name?" "It was inscribed on the ring that I was wearing when I woke up this morning."

"The one that mysteriously vanished from your dresser after you took it off?"

"Yes, the one that vanished." Lestrade said in annoyance, stretching out in an armchair. Her eyes darting from her feet to the detective. "That door isn't going anywhere."

Holmes blinked and let go. "Ah, yes."

She stared momentarily at the ceiling. "You think I've lost it, don't you?"

Holmes pulled another chair up beside her. "It had crossed my mind. Briefly," he added catching the gleam in her eye, half grinning.

"Knock it off. So who is she, or is it just coincidence?"

The detective gazed at the floor, then back at the inspector. Her eyes were thoughtful, yet he could read entreaty in them. He smiled softly. "Violet Sherrinford Holmes was my mother's name."

Lestrade's eyes widened, her mouth forming a silent "o". "You must find what I said disturbing."

"Perhaps a little unsettling." Holmes frowned, clearly weighing something. "I'm not a fanciful man," he started slowly, "but I do believe that it is prudent to not completely disregard experiences, or in your case dreams, that offer no logical explanation as to why they happened."

"Meaning?" Holmes placed a finger to his mouth and sighed through his nose, scrutinizing the young Inspector's attempt to be nonchalant about the issue.

"That your dream is more than likely a metaphor, be it for your life, things past, events you fear happening, or it could simply mean that you've been reading the good doctor's journals far too often and put yourself in a story of your own making."

Lestrade threw her head back against the chair, mentally tracing patterns in the plaster above her. "Either way, you're telling me I'm over due for a vacation."

"I would not hesitate to agree with you, I have seen you out of uniform only once before." Holmes broke into a private grin and chuckled.

Lestrade eyed him suspiciously. "If you even think of suggesting I buy a blue dress -_or_ green- and take time off from work-"

"I would suggest nothing of the sort, a shade of pink to match your lip gloss would be much more becoming on you." His thin mouth curved into a haughty smirk, offset only by his twinkling grey eyes.

Lestrade voiced a groan and tossed a small pillow at him. "Holmes, I am not taking a vacation."

"I never said you should, that idea was entirely yours. I merely stated that you would look better in pink than blue."

"Why do I bother."

Holmes gave her an amused grin. "Why indeed?"

Lestrade ignored him, letting her body go limp in the chair. Holmes watched as a far away, bemused look settled on her face. The amusement passed from his own face, turning to show mild concern as he traced her thoughts, partially out of habit, partially because she looked like a haunted woman.

"Still trying to place those men from your dream?"

"I knew one of them, Holmes. I know I did," her gaze remained on the wall, "but I can't think of who it was, or where I met him."

"And the other?"

"The other," she paled slightly, "the other reminded me of you, but he was definitely someone else. His voice, his mannerisms, his presence, it was exactly like you, but twisted in a way." Lestrade wrapped her arms around her middle, leaning into her knees "I never want to be that cold again."

Holmes didn't answer. Feeling hands on her shoulders, she turned to find him arranging a wool blanket over her. His face was pinched and eyes stormy, as if his thoughts were consuming him from the inside out. Lestrade felt a chill travel the course of her spine and to her toes. Although he was staring past her, through her even, the cast of his eyes was pulling her spirit downward into a darkness she had not seen in him before.

"I don't like it either," she finally managed, speaking softer than normal.

He snapped out of it. "What's that?"

"I don't like the similarities between you, the you in my dream and your, impersonator I guess would be the word, either."

"You're half right. I was thinking about the similarities between myself and your dreamland antagonist, but I'm afraid you nailed my five and thirty year old self nearly dead on." He said, seemingly both apologetic and nostalgic in his mannerisms.

Acting on impulse, Lestrade hopped round knees first into the chair, took Holmes by the

vest collar and buried her face in his shirt. She wasn't aware of the gentle smile that graced her lips when all scents she associated with him filled her nostrils. Holmes, however, was quite aware of the fact that she was practically nestled up on him, her hand tangled in his shirt.

"Lestrade, what the devil is the matter with you?" He stepped back abruptly, regarding her curiously, a mild blush on his cheeks.

"I was wrong." She let go of the vest and smiled as he straightened it out, his countenance twisted up in annoyance and obvious confusion.

"About what?" He barked.

"The way you smell."

Holmes grinded to a halt, blinked, then stared at her. "Come again?"

"I had assumed just because times had changed that you wouldn't smell as you did before, but you do. You still smell of chemicals, old world books, somehow tobacco, and something else I can't quite place."

"I believe that would be my aftershave you're picking up." He replied curtly.

"Would you have really hung a shrunken head in a washroom if it was dripping?"

"Heavens, Inspector, I don't know. It would probably depend if the thing gave off an offensive odour and if Watson could stand it."

"What about target practice when you have someone-"

"Ah. I thought I heard you and the Inspector, Holmes." The robotic Watson entered the room carrying a tea tray laden with small sandwiches. "I thought you two could use a light lunch

what with all your running around."

"Thank you, Watson." Holmes said recovering himself with a mild cough. "We have had a bit of a run around this morning, I believe your sandwiches will fill us up quite nicely."

"Glad to hear it, Holmes. Oh, Sir Evan Hargreaves called while you were out."

"What did he want?" Lestrade asked, righting herself and snatching a sandwich off the tray.

"Didn't say. All he said was that you're to call him when you get in, he seemed very excited about something."

"Huh, wonder what he's found now."

"Only one way to find out, Lestrade."

Holmes made his way over to the video screen and activated the link to Sir Evan's estate. The large man soon appeared on the screen with a wide grin plastered on his face. Lestrade looked up from her tea to chuckle at the site of the man, who was barely containing his enthusiasm. She came up behind Holmes and smiled.

"Feeling all right, Sir Evans?"

"Oh, just fine Inspector. I'm doing quite well, thank you."

"Glad to hear it," said Holmes cheerfully. "To what do we owe this pleasure?"

"Well, let's see. How to go about this-"

"Sir Evans?" Lestrade inquired, setting down her cup, catching Holmes's eye then moving back to the screen.

"As you know, I've been entertaining the idea of tinkering around with the notes Fenwick wrote on cloning," Lestrade snorted at the name, "out of professional curiosity and a desire to see some good made of it. As evil as he is there is no denying Fenwick is a genius and his work is impressive, moral issues aside."

"Successfully cloning Moriarty with his memory intact, okay, I'll admit that takes talent, but I can't say he impresses me much."

Holmes glanced up at Lestrade. "Agreed."

"Rightly so. In any case, I've found his notes extremely useful and have managed to apply a few of his techniques and ideas to my own. I'm pleased to say I was very successful in my endeavours."

"Then you are to be congratulated, Sir Evans," said Watson with a broad smile.

"I'm honoured you would think to call my flat with news of success."

Sir Evans smiled. "Well, yes, truth told Mr. Holmes the work I've been doing directly concerns you, and I felt it only right to call since I had meant this to help you, eventually."

Holmes tensed up, a look of distaste passed over him. "Not a clone of my brother I trust?"

Sir Evans looked shocked for a second. "Your brother? No, no. Actually, I had forgotten about your brother, my apologies."

Holmes smiled, quite relieved. "No apology necessary." He held up a hand in show.

"Oh I think it is, especially since he designs security systems for private companies now, at least that is what he told me."

Holmes choked on his own breath. "What? Mycroft, here?" His cheeks flushed, and his hand was shaking as he retrieved a thin silver case out of his breast pocket and to everyone's surprise lit a home-made cigarette, inhaling deeply. The bitter scent of tobacco smoke rose from the detective assaulting Lestrade's senses, she took a step back with her nose wrinkled.

"Ah, I see he lied."

"Lied, Sir Evans?" Asked Lestrade, who was beside herself and glaring at Holmes as he drew one long, slow drag after another. Watson simply looked astonished and stood speechless.

"Yes, Mycroft Holmes had assured me that he planned to call on you as soon as he was settled, but perhaps he just forgot in the process of becoming reacquainted with the world."

Holmes curled his fingers on the desk, flicking ash off the end of his cigarette. "Brother Mycroft doesn't forget anything. He is more than likely waiting for me to come to him, of which I have no intention of doing presently."

"Bad blood?" Asked Watson.

"Quite the contrary, usually." He smirked at Lestrade's questioning glance. "Sibling rivalry is not something that was lost on us, Lestrade, and as much as I enjoy his company from time to time he has his world as I have mine."

She smiled. "Drives you nuts, huh?"

Holmes chuckled. "I suspect I annoy him far more than he ever annoys me. I'm too energetic for him, he can't and refuses to muster the energy to keep up with me. The holidays are drawing near though, I shall simply stop in on him then."

Lestrade frowned. "Hold up. Sir Evans, how did Mycroft come to be here?"

"Ah, yes, some local college students studying the field of archaeology came across his resting place while training for an excavation and brought him to me. They were quite surprised to find him preserved in a very similar manner as you, Mr. Holmes."

A faint smile danced across his thin lips. "He probably wasn't too pleased to find out I used him as my first test subject in the field of human preservation."

"He died before you?" Watson asked at the same time Lestrade said, "You used your dead brother as a guinea pig?"

Holmes burst out laughing. "Yes to both. Mycroft died in 1946, and you can't think too terribly of me as I did turn around and leave instructions to use the same process on own body once I passed on."

Sir Evans laughed lightly, "I don't know the extent of his amusement, or lack thereof, but upon hearing you were the cause he did state that it was typical and he should have suspected as much."

Holmes smiled, clearly amused. "Well, this has definitely been interesting news, Sir Evans, I thank you for telling me of my dear elder brother."

"One moment, Mr. Holmes, there is something else I wish to discuss."

"I am all attention." He stubbed out the cigarette on the table.

Sir Evans faltered briefly."Er . . Mr. Holmes, would you like to see your Boswell again?"

For the second time that day, Holmes just stared ahead, completely caught off guard. "I don't deny the idea is a pleasing one," he said after a bit, his tone a little stoic, "but he isn't a good candidate for your rejuvenation process, I'm afraid."

"Quite, and I suppose I should have asked you first, but . . . I've successfully cloned Dr. John Watson."

Watson's "mouth" hung open. "Oh my."

Lestrade latched onto Holmes's shoulder to steady herself. "You're joking." Holmes himself said nothing, but continued to gaze blankly at Sir Evans as his mouth turned in on itself.

"It is no joke, Inspector, that small vile of his blood you loaned me worked like a charm."

Holmes slowly fixed his stone gaze upon her. "This is un-becoming of you, Lestrade," his voice low and sharp, "even after my thoughts on the matter you-"

"Now, Mr. Holmes, she merely brought his blood it to me to know if it was possible to clone from it, I was the one who decided to do so," Sir Evans cut in.

The detective let it out a derisive snort. "Holmes, I-" Lestrade started, as he dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

"I suppose then, that John is waiting on us to come and fetch him and that is the main reason for your call."

"No. I should tell you that he is in the pre-embryonic stage at this point and will be for the next three months or so. I have no intention of rushing his development at this moment, or at any other point in time, as I'm not sure if it would do more harm than good. Also, it would be healthier to transfer him into a surrogate womb -if you can think of anyone, if not I can find someone- after the incubation stage so he will be endowed with the natural defences normally transferred from a mother to her child. I don't think my equipment is as good as mother nature and I would hate to short-change him health wise."

Lestrade couldn't help it. She started laughing. It started out as small, stifled giggles at first then turned into a full blown fit of laughter. Finally she stopped long enough to speak, wiping tears from her eyes. "You mean we will be responsible for re-raising John Watson from infancy, but only after he's born from someone like myself or-"

"You, Lestrade?" Sir Evans's eyes grew as the idea sunk in. "Why yes, you could be the surrogate mother if you want. In fact I rather like the idea, you would know best how to handle him. I shall set everything up for the week before Christmas, everything will be ready by then. Come out early morning around 9 am on December 19th and we shall get you situated. See you then." The video screen shut off.

Lestrade started giggling again, but with her hand at her mouth as if she might be sick. She felt Holmes shift and gazed down to find him staring at her with an either shocked or livid expression. Lestrade didn't know which it was and wasn't sure she wanted to know, but really hoped it was just shock.

She hiccupped and gave a twitching smile. "Holmes, please tell me this is right, that you're okay with this, because I- oh God I can't believe this," she gulped, fighting back the urge to start giggling again. Holmes shook his head, lost in thought.

"Do cheer up, Inspector," said Watson, placing a hand on her shoulder, "you have a whole year to figure things out."

"Three months, Watson."

"Holmes?"

He smiled kindly at the robot. "She has -we have, only three months to put the next year in order, because after the first of the year our dear Lestrade will be-" Holmes trailed off, his brow knitted as if the idea just struck him.

Watson thought for a moment, then caught what Holmes had meant. "Oh, I see. Should we start turning the spare room into a nursery?"

Lestrade looked petrified. "A nursery? Oh no."

"Leave it be for now."

"Right then." Watson said, more than a bit confused. He thought news of a baby was supposed to be a happy and joyous occasion, but the two people in front of him almost seemed depressed. "Are you two all right?"

"Yeah, just fine." Lestrade downed the rest of her now cold tea like a shot.

"I'm sorry, Watson. This has all been a bit sudden, but yes, we're fine, or will be."

Lestrade suddenly spun around on him. "Oh man, Holmes, what am I going to tell Greyson? How am I supposed to explain this away? And what about your Irregulars? I have no desire to be poked and prodded by them."

"You're right, Chief Inspector Greyson will not be too happy about this at all." Watson stated. "And Deidre will more than likely have a dizzying array of questions for you."

"I suggest," Holmes started, rising from his seat to forcibly stop Lestrade from pacing, "that you mention this to no one for now, either of you. I plan on saying nothing about it myself, not even to the Irregulars."

"Do you think they would catch on?" Watson asked. "Lestrade will certainly have to be more careful about being so reckless."

"Possibly." He began his contemplative way of pacing. "You bring up a fair point, Watson." Holmes lit another of his cigarettes mid-step. "Lestrade, you might give a thought to training yourself to not take unnecessary risks as is your usual repertoire."

"Fine, and you have three months to smoke the rest of those cigarettes of yours, which are illegal by the way."

Holmes smirked. "You have my word."

Lestrade sat down on the settee and leaned back. Placing her hand on her stomach, she tried to envision a baby there and frowned in the process. She could still back out and find another willing -and in her mind safer- woman to carry John Watson, but that meant bringing another person into their lives. Lestrade's eyes sailed over to Holmes, who was explaining something to Watson her brain decided to tune out. He wouldn't like it. Having another person in his life would only irritate him. Her thoughts drifted back to her abdomen and what would be there all too soon. The sensation of something covering her hand caused her to look up. Her contemplative expression morphed into mild surprise to find Holmes sitting beside her.

"We'll find a way to make this work, Lestrade." He said thoughtfully, giving her hand a slight squeeze before letting go.

"Yeah, how?"

"How indeed Holmes, have you thought of something?" Watson inquired.

He flashed an enigmatic grin. "We shall simply do as all sane people in my time did."

Lestrade eyed him. "Which is?"

"Hire a nanny, what else."

* * *

_A/N January 2010 _

_Thanks go to__ Mary Christmas (id: 74834) and her unfinished, and to all appearances abandoned, story "Baby Blues" for planting carrots in my head. _

_I also wish to thank Miss Andrea, __ Amalcolm1 (id:__568315_)_, for asking "How would Watson react to the 22nd century?" which in turn watered said carrot seeds. The plot bunnies were very happy with the result. The answer to her question ran as such, "Not sure, figured I'd make it up as I went. Although, if you were to snatch him up from the year 1895 and stick him in New London I'm positive he'd suffer another fainting spell. Poor Watson, he's too nice a guy to be that cruel to (2005)."_

_Author id's included in the event of name change._


	4. A Breath, a Sigh, and a Photograph

_September 18, 2104_

The young man lay propped up on his bed staring absently at the far wall; seeing but not seeing. His mouth opened a breath and his brow knitted. A sound a hair softer than a sigh slipped out before he licked his lips and turned onto his side. Blue-grey eyes darted across the room, alighting on a small, fist sized brass clock sandwiched haphazardly between a copy of The Anarchist's Cookbook and a rusty metal box in bad repair. Four a.m. Too bored to attempt sleep, his mind was a bee hive of all that was mundane and trivial. The buzz of his thoughts as though acting out the birth of the solar system transposed him into a lull.

Focussing his eyes on his tingling arm, he trained the whole of his mind to ponder the question of when to restore proper blood flow to his hand, of which he had bent up under his thigh. All too soon, he discovered his brain slowly rebelling against him, pushing thoughts to the fore he would rather not dwell on just yet. It was all too fresh, too new, too disturbing. He violently pulled his hand free and flexed stiff digits, enjoying the stinging warmth in his finger tips. Still the thoughts came upon him, marching into the valley of his gut, and weighing his heart down with lead.

He flung himself onto his back, eyes composed in reckless abandonment. If he could not force his thoughts away he might as well give in and surrender. All the while a little voice he knew to be his own was telling him that there never had been a struggle, that he wanted to dwell on this. Angrily he dug his fingers into the bedspread. What had he made himself into? Was all his study for naught? It was ludicrous that a mind as balanced as his should come unglued as it had when he knew he was capable of handling it. Three years and a few random decades of study and training had taught him how to handle the unexpected. For the love of God his whole life revolved around, sought even, the unexpected avenues existence had to offer. Why was this time any different than any other?

His hand, seemingly of its own accord, danced around the side of the bed until it found what it was looking for. A smooth, cool, red and white necklace of 108 beads dangled from his hand. He watched the beads sway for a moment, then sighed through his angular nose, bringing his hand to rest on his chest, his heartbeat sounding off within his ears.

_You are not above it all, Sherlock_, the thought registering clearly in his face, his gaze once again finding the clock, five a.m., but more so what lay beside it.

His brain barley registered the move to the bookshelf he had done it so fast. Metal box in hand he sat cross-legged on the wood floor and placed it before him. Almost reverently he lifted back the lid and peered at its contents. A sad smile graced his lips, lending him a ghostly cast of his true age.

A pile of old, crisp photographs stared up at him. The one immediately on top causing him to smile merrily despite himself. It was a photo of himself, Dr. Watson, and Inspector Lestrade taken unaware. The date on the back placed it as 1886, by a photographer trying to capitalize on the gruesome murder that had occurred in the house behind them. Not wanting his name in any of it, he had offered the man an absurd sum for the print and his silence. He had achieved his goal, but only after frightening the poor photographer with his decided manner, much to the embarrassment of Watson. Lestrade, he remembered, had laughed at the whole scene, declaring it "more than a bit funny." He tapped the picture against his chin, amused that he only saw the humour in it now, but he supposed that was the curse of hindsight. Setting it aside, he dove back into his task, smiling, frowning, sometimes scoffing at one picture after another.

One by one, he sifted though the immense stack of prints belonging to what he thought of as his "early" life until he found what he wanted. A small, tied off bundle of tintypes. Removing the faded ribbon, Sherlock Holmes felt the inner corners of his mind crumble. A fair haired little boy of no more than six stared up at him, behind him his austere looking older brother held his hand protectively on his shoulder. Their parents stood impassively in the background, but with an arm lovingly adorning each of their boys. In flowing script he knew to be the woman's, the back of the family photo simply read "Holmes Family, 1860".

Sherlock smiled and chuckled noiselessly. He knew far too well the reason for his brother's harsh gaze in the picture. Being so young, energetic -and on that particular day bored- Sherlock had managed to annoy his then thirteen year old brother to the point where Mycroft actually considered hitting him. A sly grin donned the younger Holmes's narrow face, his eyes twinkling. Even if Mycroft hadn't been too appreciative of the garden snake that had "accidentally" slipped down his shirt collar, it had been all too amusing watching him wriggle about with an expression of horror on his face. Of course, once Mycroft had removed the poor creature from his shirt he had taken after Sherlock with every intention of burying him alive. Except by the time Mycroft had caught him, he was so flustered and out of breath he simply levelled a fist at him and promised to knock out his teeth if he didn't behave.

Struck by a sudden though, the detective burst into a full fit of laughter. By odd coincidence, Mycroft had made good on his word a few years later as he tried to show him how to mount a horse. He hadn't intended to kick him in the jaw, but in losing his grip on the reins his foot had swung out, landing with sufficient force to knock out one of his front baby teeth. In a panic, Mycroft had carried a screaming Sherlock into the house, blood covering the top of his mouth. Sherlock didn't remember his mother's reaction, but he did recall the sound of her voice as she tried to calm him.

As suddenly as it came the laughter died on his lips, leaving a look of utmost concentration in its wake. His eyes darkening to a piercing grey as they landed on a photo of John Watson amongst some of his medical colleagues taken right before the turn of the century. Will he have all his memories? Will he remember Mary? Will he choose the medical profession again now that it had changed so much? Will he hate having to live through a second childhood?

He sighed, speaking softly. "What do you make of your youngest son now, Mother?" His gaze lingering on a cabinet shot of Violet Holmes that had drifted to his knee. "Now that he is to play father to his best friend."

Fingering the box absently, a curious expression arose on his brow. Reaching in, he pulled an emerald tiepin from the bottom, laughing silently that this expensive little trinket survived the years at the bottom of such a dilapidated old box. Raking under the rest of the photos and odd obituaries turned up little else, but what he did find surprised him a bit. John Watson's pocket watch, the chain intertwined with a stately gentleman's ring he recognized as his own, and a small, white gold diamond ring.

Slipping the diamond onto his pinkie, Sherlock carefully began putting everything back in the box, all the while thinking back of the young woman who had given him the ring. He paused before snapping the lid of the tin closed and pulled his family portrait back out. Once the box was squared away on the shelf again, Sherlock propped the old photo over the clock and sat against his bed, twisting the ring this way and that.

The young woman who had owned this ring was not someone Sherlock thought of lightly. She said she was the youngest daughter of a duke, but he had come by her acquaintance on a small farm in the middle of France working as a maid. Clearly with child, he hadn't been there but two days when labour pains had come upon her. Short of staff, the midwife enlisted him to keep her calm despite his protests. The end of it all was her haemorrhaging, her baby stillborn, and her dying request that the ring be given to her child when the babe came of age. She had thrust the ring in his hand and that was that. He had left the room feeling quite aloof and upon inspecting the ring, believed her tale.

The detective's mind faltered and for one second he imagined Beth Lestrade in the Lady's place. He paled at the thought of burying his Boswell a second time, but was struck senseless when his mind carried out the imagery to its gruesome end and Lestrade's drained face loomed before him. In his eyes he saw the once lively Inspector sprawled in a bath of her own blood like a bastardized Saint Bernadette, an ice-blue baby boy laying between her bare legs.

"No," he cried hoarsely, drifting limply to the side. He curled his head between his arms, forcing deep breaths in and out to alleviate the swell of nausea rising in his stomach. A growing clang sounded in his ears, echoing deep within his skull. Focussing on the six chimes tolling from the photograph, he attempted to will himself back to normal. The back of his throat felt parched and sticky, his hands shook despite all effort, but slowly he sat back up.

With his head to his chest Sherlock swallowed the nameless knot that seemed determined to climb up his throat and impress its self upon him. Perspiration dotted his brow, eyes flickering from the stern face of Siger Holmes to that of his graceful wife. Sherlock bit the length of his index finger frowning, elbow pressed into his knee. Almost as an afterthought, the spry detective leapt from the floor and tore down to the kitchen in a rush.

Sherlock collided with the solid metal frame belonging to Watson round the corner of the door, jarring the robot to his senses. Watson gave Holmes a curious look and opened his mouth to speak. Sherlock's thin hand quickly flattened its self against the elasto-mask, a finger flying to his lips requesting silence.

"What is this Watson that I should have one-hundred-and-one years of life behind me, two-hundred-and-fifty to my name, only to be reduced to a state that reflects nothing of what I am?" He whispered ardently, near shouting in the quiet of the flat.

Watson removed Holmes's hand. "Gracious Holmes, I thought it would have been obvious," he said kindly.

"Obvious?" his voice was taunt with incredulity. "Tell me dear Watson, what have I been obtuse enough to have missed?"

"There is no need to get worked up about it, it's quite simple."

Holmes barked a short laugh. "Indeed? Do tell."

Watson smiled gently. "You cannot miss what you don't know and you have never known what it is like to be an expectant," he paused, thinking, "uh, father. Other than your own childhood you've never been actively involved with children, nor to my knowledge have you ever been around a woman with child save in passing. Simply put, you are nervous wreck because you are afraid, age has nothing to do with it."

Sherlock sank into a chair contemplatively and flashed a brief grin. "Well said, old man. I forget that you yourself are prone to the odd moments of clarity as your namesake was."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, you are hardly the first in history to go through such feelings, nor will you be the last."

"I don't disagree with you my friend, not at all. And while you are quite correct in your assessment of me, it is only the start of what has been running amok within the confines of my mind. I should be prepared to tell you the Fates are behind this and the Lama himself laughing at what God has allowed humanity to accomplish. A grain of sand would have a better grasp of these queer doings than I and still I am expected to have the answers. I have nothing, Watson, absolutely nothing." Sherlock ran a hand over his face and wiped an eye.

Watson frowned and sat opposite Holmes at the thick oak table. "There is more to this than fears of parenting I take it?"

"Realization is a strong current capable of drowning even the stoutest of men should they lose sight of the land they seek and knowledge of such an anchor round the neck." Throwing his legs over the table-top and crossing them Sherlock leaned his chair back and sighed, arms folded.

Watson started to speak, closed his mouth, pressed his lips, then watched as Holmes closed his eyes and began breathing through his mouth. Fingering a knife groove in the table that had been there for more years than he had circuits, he pondered the wisdom in trying for answers to the questions in his wiring.

"Ask your question, Watson." Sherlock's eyes remained shut.

The metal man's face drew back in surprise. "Oh, I had thought- Dare I ask what it is that you've realised?"

He sighed through his nose. "It is ironic that spring should be credited as the season of life when in truth it preludes -even masking- death. It is not the true nature of the world, but the epitome of destruction because to claim perfection is to lie." Sherlock righted himself and gazed at the metal man patiently, his hands playing over the details in the table.

Watson was at a loss. Holmes's words had been easy enough to understand, but the man's eyes were now fixed on him in a blurry warmth prone to cause chills rather than comfort and for the life of him he did not know why. Uneasiness was quickly setting in as he searched for a reply to the detective's statement. Sherlock smiled slowly, the grey of his irises dimming in colour only to burn brighter.

"It's all right, Watson, don't trouble yourself over my random idiosyncrasies, they tend to answer themselves in time." Sherlock stood to leave.

Watson gaped after him then shouted out, "No, Holmes, I can't very well let conclude on this note. It's -it's . . ."

"Perfectly all right." Holmes said, placing a hand on his shoulder and lowering his eyes to meet the robot's with another smile.

"But -but barely twenty minutes ago you were admittedly troubled and now you're not?" Watson rubbed his head. "Are you sure you're fine?"

Sherlock braced himself against the doorway, his face a chiselled monolith. "I still have my fears, Watson, but you need not worry about them. Time will see things right, I simply need to regain my patience towards them that's all."

"If pending parenthood is affecting you this way, I wonder how Lestrade is fairing?" Watson thought aloud.

"I cannot call myself a gentleman, Watson. I had forgotten that despite appearances our dear Inspector is technically a lady and deserves our consideration, especially in matter such as this." A soft, humorous "ha" escaped him, the corners of his eyes gathering in evidence of a hidden grin.

Watson smiled wide. "Doesn't act much like a lady does she?"

"No indeed. I could place £100 on my own name in full confidence that I could act more a lady than she." He tilted forward and lit a cigarette, putting the match out in a flower vase.

Watson started laughing. "You disguised as a pregnant woman, surely that sight would be worth more than that."

Holmes cocked his head in a mild offense, breathing in his own smoke. "I would never belittle myself by adding that particular characteristic to my disguise. And you shall have to pardon me on what you view as an absurdly low sum, the idea of _not_ being able to live off £100 a year is strange to me still." Sherlock sighed for what Watson thought must have been the twentieth time and inquired what caused him to do so.

"Nothing of particular interest, merely the fanciful notion that nothing save having John handed to me in perfect health will remove my anxiety."

"Rather baseless fear isn't it, Holmes? With today's technology and advancements in medicine the infant fatality rate is zero. You have no reason to think he would be anything but healthy. Besides, New London is home to the best children and neonates medical department this side of the Atlantic should anything go wrong."

"Once again Watson you forget the influence of the 19th century over me, stillbirth and death from childbirth were common then." He stole a glance at his pocket watch, then turned on his heel heading for the first floor. "Come, it is now eight and if I'm not mistaken Lestrade has just let herself in." The last of the cigarette finding its way into the vase like the match before it.

Watson followed a step behind Holmes's long stride. "Holmes, try not to stress about it, the hospitals are one-hundred percent reliable."

Holmes's face contorted into a grotesque show of disgust. He strode into Lestrade's presence with the air of a violent gale, shouting to Watson, "I will not have John Watson re-born into this world in a hospital. Babies should be born in homes, not facilities for the sick, it's un-natural."

This passionate outburst from the detective became not only the first words she heard from him that morning, but also the first to make her blood boil. Lestrade felt her anger rise even as she tried to quell it. Her violet-blue eyes narrowed into two piercing beams at the man who now came towards her wearing the thin smile that passed as his usual greeting, full of charm but always sarcastic in nature. He still wore the same outfit from the day before, wrinkled and no neck-tie with the top button on the vest undone. Amusingly, he was also completely bare-foot, but she made the decision to laugh later. Lestrade felt her heart pounding against her ribs, making her uniform seem tighter than it really was. She scrunched her toes inside her boots and smiled back.

"Holmes," she said sweetly. "What do you mean by no hospitals and "babies should be born in homes"?" Lestrade gave him her best smile, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then dropped the cute act. "Because if you think for one minute that I am going to agree to go the all-natural route you've got another thing coming."

Holmes looked temporarily surprised. "Forgive me, I thought you understood the reasons behind my dislike of hospitals."

Lestrade smiled again and crossed her arms. "I only heard an opinion. What about you

Watson, did you catch his reasons?"

The metal man's eyes darted between the two, "I think you will be needing some tea by the end of all this. I'm going to the kitchen to make a small breakfast. I'll bring it up when you're ready." Watson put his back to them and walked back towards the kitchen. Once out of sight he rolled his eyes and shook his head, "glad I got out of there."

Lestrade watched Watson's retreating back in some annoyance, her jaw agape out of surprise. She then turned to Holmes who was laughing silently and pointed an accusing finger at him.

"You knew he'd do that didn't you?" She asked, re-directing her finger in the direction Watson had gone.

Holmes continued his laughter into a quiet, but audible chuckle. Lestrade's face changed from its normal smooth pale peach to a mix of pink and red. Her eyes flashed, "knock it off Holmes."

He smiled kindly, placing a hand on the small of her back and guiding her to a seat. "My dear Inspector, would you swim in the ocean during a storm?"

Lestrade was taken aback. "No, it's dangerous," she said as Holmes sat in his arm chair.

"Exactly." His eyes bore into hers, his lips growing into a full smirk as he noted the exact moment she caught on. Violet eyes flew wide, angrily burning along with the rest of the lovely face in which they sat.

"Smooth Holmes, real smooth," she said acidly, as the detective shrugged. "Now care to tell me why you hate hospitals so much?"

Fingers in a steeple against the bridge of his nose, eyes half closed, Holmes grunted. "Is it not enough that I want the first thing John sees of this world to be a familiar setting and not some strange doctor who's acquaintance we barely made."

Lestrade's expression went flat. "Babies can't see clearly at birth, Holmes, to them it's all swirls of colour."

"Really? Interesting. Pray continue."

She put her head in her hands and groaned. "What's there to continue about? I've already said there is no way I'm going all-natural."

Holmes knitted his brow. "Yes, you said that, and I'm afraid I'm at as loss by what you mean, surely you don't want a caesarean."

"No," she barked, her mind balking at how boring recovery could be. "Hospitals can administer drugs to numb the lower half of your body so you won't feel pain. Unfortunately-"

"Unfortunately, what you speak of is illegal for use outside of the hospital, correct? And you don't want to go without." Holmes turned to her, staring in a contemplative manner. "Will morphine work? I know it was used in the 20th century to dull pain."

If she could have willed herself to move she would have hit him -hard. Even after a year of working closely with him, Lestrade had a hard time believing the things that would come out of his mouth. Granted, most of the comments he made were worth listening to and making note of, while others simply came out all wrong. Well meaning commentary, such as suggesting the use of morphine, would sound as cold and harsh as being dropped into the middle of the Arctic Ocean in January.

Lestrade curled her fingers into the armrests of her chair, all the while taking slow and deliberate breaths. With one thought she felt all the anger and frustration drain out of her, only to be replaced by a mix of worry, sorrow, and peace. She let go and folded her hands gracefully in her lap. An introspective light shadowed her face briefly before she turned to the detective who was sitting with one foot in his chair and the other sideways, his grey eyes scanning her furiously.

_I can't get mad. I can't get mad. _ "Do you have any idea how much this is going to stress me out? Why should you have a say in how John Watson, or _any_ baby -unless it's your own and with your track record that'll never happen- is born? No modern woman would agree to a home delivery, it's just not done, I doubt you could find a surrogate that would even consider it."

Holmes hadn't taken his eyes off her once, when he spoke it was flat. "A surrogate. You changed your mind then."

Lestrade sighed, seemingly lost as she forcibly ignored the growing tightness in her chest. "I don't know if I ever agreed in the first place."

Holmes drew a sharp breath. Lestrade watched him in surprise, the look that fleetingly appeared on his face told her she hadn't needed to move to slap him. She felt him mentally turn away from her as he lit a cigarette, his eyes darkening.

"This situation will progress, Lestrade, towards life, death, however you will it." His voice was not kind. "What would I say to a potential surrogate that wouldn't make them question our actions. You yourself openly admit to disliking clones, doesn't the world share in your opinion? I've told you before that I -WE- had no right to subject John to this world. As much as I would prefer his company to anyone else, I was content to leave him to God. But you made your choices as Sir Evans made his, and since he cannot bear children it was left unto you. Now you wish to tell me you want out of the mess you created. Fine. We shall call Sir Evans and request he abort this neonate of a clone today, no sense raising your stress level any higher."

The pressure in her lungs was bordering on cold nausea. "Holmes abortion is illegal, Sir Evans said he could find a surrogate, and how is this my mess?" A tinge of anger resurfaced in her voice.

"Do you really want me to list off reasons?" He stood, cigarette between his lips, then he suddenly threw it into the hearth, retrieved his pipe from a cluttered corner and packed it. Holmes drew deeply on the clay piece and smiled, meeting Lestrade's gaze out of the corner of his eye. "I've been growing a few different types of tobacco plants and, in light of your laws, I promised myself to only light the strongest of these on a limited basis. As of right now, the devil with it, I don't care."

"Holmes if you get caught with that Greyson will boil you alive. I don't know if anyone has ever told you, but smoke in general is harmful, especially to infants. And I thought you agreed to stop smoking." She jumped up in front of him, bringing her sharply to his attention.

His lip curled. "Cigarettes. I gave you my word on _that_, nothing else. And what infant? The youngest thing here is that machine you call Watson."

"Let me remind you that you're the one who wanted that _machine_ around, and we can get a surrogate-"

"I will not have you burden the shoulders of some poor woman because you refuse to accept responsibility." Holmes intoned, sending a cloud of bluish smoke into the air.

"Stop shoving this down my throat, I don't want to be pregnant." Lestrade nearly shouted. "I'm too-"

"Afraid." Holmes said this a little softer, the dark glitter of his eyes speaking volumes of which Lestrade was in no mood to interpret.

"I was going to say too young, but afraid no, try disgusted."

Holmes backed away from her, dropped into his chair like a rag doll, and gazed straight ahead. The pipe sat firmly between his teeth, his fingers drumming a beat out on his leg in tune to whatever score was currently occupying his mind. Lestrade stood in the middle of the room feeling foolish. She massaged her temples and groaned.

"Don't take to ignoring me Holmes, this won't just disappear."

He closed his eyes. "I am aware of that, Lestrade." He flattened his hands on his knees, and puffed lightly on the pipe.

After a few minutes Lestrade sighed and sat on the settee, dragging her eyes around the room waiting for Holmes to speak. Finally she gave up trying to distract herself and openly stared at him. "Holmes." The man appeared to be asleep. "Holmes!"

"Did it ever occur to you that silence is a trait to be admired in a companion?" He cracked an eye.

She frowned, pursing her lips into a thin line. "So is listening."

Holmes let his posture drop and turned to her. "I have heard every word you've spoken and answered accordingly, is a moment of silence too much to ask for?"

She snorted. "Trying to hear voices in your head?"

"Something along those lines."

Lestrade looked Holmes in the eye, a second knot forming in her stomach under the gaze of his unreadable grey-blue eyes. "I'm only twenty-three, I really don't want to get pregnant so young."

Holmes nodded once. "I understand." He watched with muted fascination the affect those two words had on the young woman on his sofa. Her eyes drifting from blue to violet and back again in a wash effect conveying to him the great uneasiness stirring within her. Holmes doubted she realized that for once her poker face had abandoned her and her body language turned traitor. She had not expected him to stop arguing, and now that he had she did not know what to do or say.

He soften his gaze. "If you are willing, we can work through this Lestrade." Holmes rose to set his finished pipe on the fireplace mantel, tapping the tobacco remnants in a pile on the corner.

The Inspector regained a little of her composure. "You never said why you're so against a surrogate."

"I do not care for the idea of bringing another person into our midst. Occupational hazards alone warrant against bringing in a surrogate, who un-doubtingly will bring her relations into the mix. No, far too many people for my taste. I could not guarantee their safety from actions taken by the like of Moriarty or any number of criminals who would see an opportunity to cause grief."

Lestrade smiled lightly. "Point taken."

"Am I to take that . . ." Holmes held his hand out in questioning gesture.

Lestrade took to her feet, feeling more comfortable at eye level. "Well, uh. Crud. You backed me into this on purpose."

"You give me far too much credit, Lestrade. Have you made up your mind?"

"Geez, Holmes, I haven't even had a day to think about this." She started pacing herself, bringing a smirk to Holmes's face.

"How is that different than if he were biologically yours? From what I understand, unless it is planned, most people do not even have that."

"Yeah, well now days you can choose when you want to have kids instead of relying on nature to do its thing."

Holmes raised a brow. "Welcome to what must be a primitive concept for you: you are suddenly expecting a child, what now?"

Lestrade glared at him. "Bad choice of humour, Holmes, that sounds like the title for a cheap self-help book."

"It is the literal truth. And the first question -which I believe to be answered- is will you carry the un-born babe, or shall we call upon an outside source?" Holmes sat gracefully back down, patiently awaiting Lestrade's response.

She narrowed her blue eyes at him. "Now you're playing games."

The detective smiled impishly. "Perhaps, or perhaps I believe your mind is made up and you are trying to convince yourself otherwise."

Lestrade felt her heart drop into her stomach, fighting with him wasn't working, no one would be convinced of anything at this rate. She made the decision to drop what little of her tough act was left and go with the one things sure to at least get her point across, emotion.

_Here goes nothing._ "Holmes, I know you think that my being the surrogate is the best option, and in the grand scheme of things you're probably right, but I need time to think about this. I," _I hate admitting this._ "I need time to make sure my mental health is what it should be. You have to admit that the last few months have been exhausting for all of us. It would be irresponsible and unfair to everyone, including John, to ignore the fact we're all over-worked and stressed out."

Holmes averted his eyes. For her, this was an un-characteristically personal bit of information to say aloud, and to him. Frankly, it made him feel like a heel. He knew their last case had taken a lot out of her and her hellish nightmare two nights ago was not an effective aid in recuperation. His thumb found the forgotten ring on his pinkie and took to rubbing it. It surprised him that Lestrade either hadn't noticed it yet, or wasn't saying anything about it in favour of more important topics.

_This is not right, this argument should never have happened. How can I can I consider myself a gentleman when I act the opposite?_ Meeting her eyes, Holmes gestured towards the sofa she had vacated.

"Forgive me, Miss Lestrade. Sit down, please. I have behaved in a detestable manner this morning, and I have no excuse for it save that you are right in what you say. While I am used to functioning after near running myself into the ground, I made the mistake of assuming you would remain un-affected."

"I would like to point out you're not exactly functioning up to your usual par either, Holmes. Normally, no matter how seemingly dense, you're a little more intuitive than this."

The detective sighed and slipped the ring into his pants pocket. "The Continent it is then," he said, standing. "There is a train that leaves at 11:30, it is now 10:15, will that be sufficient time for you to pack?"

Lestrade marvelled at his change. "What for?" She asked, watching him throw open the door to his room and take to packing a medium sized suitcase.

"For a vacation, of course. Ask Watson to call up the station and reserve three tickets on your way out will you? Afterwards, Watson and I will pick you up round eleven and we shall be on our way."

"Wait a minute, do you mean today? But Greyson-"

Holmes didn't bother to look up. "Yes, today, and Greyson survived without us once, he will be fine for a few weeks."

Lestrade's eyes flew wide. "A few weeks? Holmes, I don't know about this."

Holmes smiled and started ushering her to the door. "Don't worry about it, Miss Lestrade, this is the sort of thing John himself would recommend. Who ignores the advice of a trusted doctor?"

"Oh I don't know, let me think, _you_." The Inspector said with a grinning smirk.

Holmes turned a little pink. "Ah, yes, well time is wasting my dear friend, I shall see you at eleven."

Lestrade recoiled slightly as Holmes gently closed the door on her, leaving her on the landing of 221b feeling amused, horrified, and relieved at the same time. She put a hand to her mouth and bit on her lip, seriously considering going back in after a full explanation. A million questions were still buzzing in her head, all of them with individual fears of their own, but they could wait a few weeks couldn't they? The answers weren't going to come to her any faster if she dwelled on them, so why not take a break?

_Lord knows I could use some time off, and this would be a good chance to get Holmes talking without finding a way to distract himself. _She paused in her thoughts, ran her tongue against the back of her teeth, then contorted her features in a way that clearly expressed baffled awe. _Holy cow, I've agreed to his insane plan and didn't even realize it. Beth, what are you doing? Something stupid that's what._ Re-opening the door to the flat, she called out to the detective who turned to her as if he had expected it. He questioned her with his eyes rather than words, patiently waiting for her to speak first.

"I was just thinking, maybe we could go to Spain first and see the Moorish palace in Granada. Ever since Edith told me of one of her summer trips there I've wanted to see it for myself. She said it was one of the most beautiful buildings she had ever seen."

Holmes smiled. "I trust Edith's judgement. If you wish to see Spain, then we shall see Spain."

Lestrade beamed at him for the first time that he could recall outside of the day he woke up. He wasn't one to note on physical beauty, but he was certain with that one smile John would have declared her "positively stunning", and then remark on how her deep blue eyes sparkled like stars, or something sensationally romantic along the same lines when she was out of ear shot. Holmes laughed to himself, wondering if it was romanticism that he had learned from his dear friend, or just an increased ability for metaphors. Metaphors. The word stuck in his mind with fierce obstinacy, so much so that he reached out and took hold of Lestrade by the wrist as she was leaving.

"You'll pardon me I'm sure, I do understand the need for mental health and the sometimes seeming illogical ways problems and solutions will come about. In light of that I was wondering if you will hold onto something for me."

Lestrade faced him with a curious look in her blue eyes, leaning against the door as he continued. "Please do not take this to mean anything more than safe-keeping an item for me. If you will consent to hold onto it for a time I will be much obliged."

Holmes turned her hand face up, placed the ring in the centre of her palm, and folded her fingers over it. Lestrade gazed at the hand he was still cupping, then back at him. "Holmes, I don't understand. You want me to hold onto a ring?" He let go, allowing her to examine it closely.

"It's beautiful," she murmured, "and very old. Who's was it?"

"It belonged to a young woman who went by the name Elle de Vore, who's story I shall relate when we have more time to spare."

"I'll hold you to that," she sliding it onto the ring finger of her right hand. "No pockets. Guess I better get to my apartment and start packing. I'll see you in a bit."

Holmes nodded. "Indeed, and do remember Watson on your way out."

"I will," Lestrade called from half way down the stairs.

Holmes shut the door fully when she had disappeared from his sight. He rested his forehead against the door and closed his eyes, lamenting the nonsense his mind concocted leading to such a superstitious action. Strangely enough, he felt a sense of relief now that she had it, which was doing much to quell his overactive imagination.

_Too busy, everything is far too busy._ Taking a deep breath, Holmes resumed his preparations deciding that after exhausting the sites in Granada their next destination would be the middle of the French countryside in some obscure bed & breakfast where they could simply disappear. Suitcase in hand, Holmes gave one last look around, smiled wistfully, then locked the door behind him.

* * *

_A/N January 2010_

_"Granada" is in homage to Granada Television, the broadcasting company behind The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes etc. featuring Jeremy Brett as Holmes._

_A tip of my pencil in lieu of a hat to Mr. Jeremy Brett (1933-1995), for without him my first impression of Holmes would have been left to lesser actors than he. God rest his soul.  
_


	5. Land of Sand

The absence of light around her was the epitome of nothingness. It couldn't be described as comforting, frightening, or something in-between, because it would have had to exist in the first place. She couldn't feel it, but was intimately embraced by it. She couldn't see it, but it swirled behind her eyes nonetheless. She reached out to touch it, but missed, barely making out the presence of a reverberating electric shock in the distance. Moving closer toward where she believed the source of the shock came from, she sensed her body jump of its own accord. Her left arm began to sting, and flexing her fingers in an attempt to dispel the sensation fuelled the burn. She stumbled sideways and fell into a pulsating cold that echoed sharply in her ears. In vain she pressed her hands to her ears trying to numb the sound, finally resorting to groping aimlessly for a way out of the increasing charge. One heart stopping jolt later and the quiet darkness re-emerged, only now she was freezing cold.

The presence of a soft fabric against her cheek slipped into focus as well as the realization that she was lying down. She could have laughed when she concluded that the only place the darkness existed was in the back of her eyelids and not in some form of bizarre limbo. Mentally she chided herself at being foolish enough to believe she had been swallowed by the night, when really she had just fallen asleep somewhere.

Beth allowed herself a deep, calming breath before wondering where she had dozed off. She remembered leaving Holmes's flat, but not arriving at her own apartment. She couldn't already be on the train could she? She was positive she would have felt the rocking of the cars before now and the robotic Watson asking a million questions would have woken her. Not to mention her mind had trained itself to be aware of every little thing Holmes said, as he usually left her out on his plans, and she had yet to even hear him so much as breathe.

She stretched her shoulders and blinked. The cold darkness was now a lukewarm charcoal. She blinked again and it became a lukewarm, swirling mist. A small seed of panic planted itself in the back of her mind, which started growing when she blinked repeatedly and the swirl remained.

_Okay, I can't see. Where am I and what is going on? Holmes?_

Believing she had said the detective's name aloud, she was quite taken aback when it dawned on her that she hadn't heard her own voice. Forcing her mind to quiet itself, Beth strained her ears to see if she could pick up sounds previously unnoticed. Nothing. Dead silence pressed itself on her, so she tried another tactic. Stretching out her hands, she probed her immediate surroundings with her fingers. Anxiety burst to life within her when she flexed her fingers a breath away from her body and felt cold metal under her. Where in the heck was she?

A cold, cruel chuckle reached her ears, ringing within them long after the actual sound had died. She felt someone standing over her and a voice whispered, _**"done enough thinking yet, child? He's given you up for dead you know. Such a shame really, it was a nice shirt until you ruined it."**_

_I'm not dead._

He chuckled, his rich voice churning her stomach. _**"Oh no? Then why are you here? But then you've wanted to be here your whole life, only I think you imagined being here with someone other than myself." **_He traced her lips with a finger, pressing none too gently.

_Hands off, ugly!_ She made to slap him, but nothing happened, her arms held fast to her sides as if they had been strapped down. A pair of rich, dark copper eyes loomed over her, accompanied by a charming smile that on a kind face would have been pleasant.

_**"You have begun to rot, child. Soon your lovely face will have sunk into that empty skull of yours and your beautiful blue eyes will become white. I know you had thought to start an unorthodox family, how does maggots sound to you?"**_ He smiled broadly at her, his hand trailed her side, coming to rest on her lower abdomen.

Beth was livid. She narrowed her pointed gaze and snarled. _What do I have to do to get it through that thick, perverted head of yours that I'm not DEAD, you sorry excuse for a . . . a, what the hell are you anyway?_

The smiled faded into a thin line and he brought his face within inches of hers. His breath was like the nothing she first woke up in, only she felt it sticking to her skin. He licked his lips and shook his head, speaking softly. _**"Sweet child, you died, you are dead, gone forever. Sherlock himself struck the last nail on the box in which he laid you."**_

_That is the biggest pile of bullshit that I've ever heard. I think I would remember dying, if nothing else._

The sickening smile reappeared on his face. _**"Suit yourself, love. I've tried being nice."**_

_HA. Nice? Being shot in the head would be nice compared to you, at least that's quick._ She pulled at her bonds as he knelt down by her head, playing with her hair.

_** "You were dead before you had your finger completely wrapped around his belt loop." **_He breathed into her ear, the corners of his mouth twitching into a pleased smile.

Her mind became a whirlwind of horrors. _No, couldn't be._

_**"Oh, but it could, love, it could."**_

Dry fingers brushed hair off her forehead and settled by her temple. Cold lips pressed themselves against her head, then her cheek, then made for her lips as a strong voice abruptly forced itself between them, calling her name and pulling her away from whatever held her. A rush of warmth swirled around her like soothing bath water.

_ Water?_

Beth forced her eyes open wide to find herself laying soaking wet upon the shore of the stream she had first fallen into. She raised her eyes to the large oak tree, only to find it a hollow point of what it had been. The kind man she had been speaking with stood beside her also wet, his shimmering blue eyes full of concern. He swept his sagging brown hair away from his eyes and turned to help her up.

"Miss Lestrade, please do your best to stay out of the water, I won't always be here to fetch you out. I almost wasn't able to this time."

"Wh -what? Am I dreaming?" Beth held her hands out palm up. The rain that had started on her previous visit was now nearing a down pour.

The man gazed at her like one with a broken heart. "In a manner of speaking, but it's not safe here anymore. You need to wake up or what that man said will stay a reality."

Beth turned to him questioningly. "What that man said? Do you know who he is?"

He lowered his head, meeting her eyes sadly. "You need to wake up."

"Wait, what's real in all this? Who is that guy who keeps taunting me? Tell me what you know." Beth grabbed the man by his lapels and brought him in close, only to find she hadn't touched him at all. Fear shone in her eyes as she stared at her empty hands.

The man shook his head. "I know only one thing more than you do and that's simply because you don't want to acknowledge it. The reality is that metal table you felt, the rest? Who can say for sure."

Her hands fell limp at her sides. "That table is real." _No, it can't be. It can't, can it?_

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she lost the battle to keep the terrified scream contained in her throat. Only, she never heard herself scream, but rather the scream of a very startled man in a white stained coat. Beth opened her eyes to see a dirty ceiling lit by dingy gas lamps. The blanket around her was really just a very thin sheet and she now noticed a repugnant, stale scent in the air. Glancing around, she found the frightened man pressed up against the wall shaking and muttering something under his breath repeatedly, fiddling with a chain under his collar. It came to her as the man dashed out of the room yelling for a nurse, and with dawning horror she realized where she was; the morgue.

Shock had made her all but senseless to those who came tearing into the room to see what the man was screaming about. It hardly registered when a few nurses whisked her away into a side room much cleaner than the one she had just been in, frantically talking to each other, and saying how lucky she was, and that the mortician was sending a message to her house at that very moment. The ladies dressed her nude body in a spare coat and put slippers on her feet, continuously chatting away at her and around her. Finally, Beth's brain decided it wanted to work long enough to ask one simple question: what was the date?

One of the two nurses stopped, stared at her for a second, then spoke. "Oh, sorry, dear, bit carried away we got there. It's the eleventh of July, you've been here for three days. Lucky thing you woke up when you did, why they was set to place you in the autopsy room."

Beth felt whatever blood that had been in her face drain down to her feet. A numb chill ran the length of her body, causing her to sway awkwardly. Her head dropped, her eyelids fluttered momentarily then closed as her legs gave out. The other nurse let out a gasp as she watched the living dead girl fall back into the arms of a tall, stoic figure who had just come into view. The man said nothing at all, but the dark look in his eyes was enough to make the nurses lock arms in an attempt to sooth their racing hearts.

The mortician came up in a very flighty, nervous manner, signalling he wanted this concluded as fast as possible. "Mary, Rose, you girls can go now, this gentleman is here for our guest." A slight pause wavered over the last word, his beady eyes darting to the unconscious woman slumped against the other man.

"Right, of course." One answered, tugging on the sleeve of her companion, who blinked and then nodded.

The first nurse headed out the door and the other followed, stopping before completely disappearing. "Beg pardon, Sir, but you'll be wanting this back." She held out her hand to the tall man and dropped a small diamond ring in his palm. At the same time a sharp low voice could be heard hissing "Rose" from around the corner. The man gazed at it intently, then slipped it into his pocket.

Rose smiled at him. "Suppose it was just oversight that she came in with it on. I'm only glad none of these here men got to it or it'd be long gone by now." She paused thoughtfully. "Course, odd place for an engagement ring, on her right hand and all."

"Rose, what are you doing?" The one nurse who had left the room swung back around and grabbed her younger counter part by the arm. "My apologies, gentlemen, Rose doesn't often think before speaking."

The tall man smiled gently at her. "Quite all right." He turned to the mortician. "And now Mr. Hughes, I do need to be on my way. The girl's _mother_ will be after me if I'm away much longer and I have no desire to cause her anymore undue stress."

Mr. Hughes smiled. "Can't say I blame her for wanting her girl back fast as possible. This is no place for a gentle creature like herself." He gestured to Beth, who was still slumped against Holmes. "I just thank God she came to in time. I'd hate myself if my assistant had started something I couldn't undo."

"I quite agree with you." Holmes said, casting a glance down at Beth and lifting her properly into his arms.

This time everything was white and a comfortable warmth. At first she was quite content to just stay in the light and rest, but a golden glow started to seep through, rousing her curiosity. The first thing she became aware of was a constant bumping and that her head was resting on something soft and warm. Her eyes fluttered open enough to make out the basic interior of a four seat hansom and the striped pant leg of a tall, thin man. She closed her eyes again, suddenly very tired, and breathed a sigh of relief. She felt him shift slightly and guessed he was looking to see if she was conscious. Deciding she didn't want to be awake, she curled her legs up on the seat and slid one arm around the man's, settling her head back between his shoulder and the seat. She felt him tense up and his gaze linger on her longer than before. His voice gently, but tightly, calling her to attention was the last thing she heard before falling asleep.

Sherlock Holmes stared at the pale girl fast asleep in her bed, coiled up on her side like a small child. Mrs. Hudson having long finished with her fussing, crying, and constant praises to God that she was alive, had gone to lie down, completely exhausted by the day's turn of events. That left just Sherlock leaning against the door frame deep within the confines of his mind, oblivious to all except the young lady before him.

A small sneer threatening to show itself was the only outward sign of his irritation. Usually, he could wrap his mind around the strange and seemingly impossible, but this unnerved him. He pulled the ring the nurse had said Beth had come in wearing out of his pocket, in his other hand he fiddled with a ring identical to it. Two of them, exactly alike in near every detail, except the one in his right hand belonged, apparently, to Beth. Where, when, and how she had received it he couldn't fathom. She had most certainly not been wearing it three days ago, nor when Watson came in and confirmed his suspicions, and a dead girl most certainly could not get up, pull a ring from nowhere and place it on her own finger.

His mind raced with endless possibilities, each one more ludicrous than the next. Finally, he moved himself back up to his rooms, buried the ring he had into a box he put things in to forget about, and then returned to Beth's bedside, turning the other ring in his fingers. He felt distinctly ill holding it, the ring and her brush with death made his mind crawl with darker images only the perverted would call fantasies. Beth stirring brought him back into reality. Having made up his mind he knelt down and called out to her, hoping for an answer.

"Miss Lestrade?" He said softly.

Beth's blue eyes gazed up at him sleepily. "Hm?"

"Would you mind telling me how you came to possess this ring?" He asked, holding up the diamond ring.

Beth knitted her brow slightly. "You gave it to me, Holmes, said you would rest easier if I held on to it for a while. Why?" She blinked, glanced at her surroundings, then looked back at him, suddenly more awake. "You have one just like it, don't you?"

A grim look registered on his face. "Yes."

Beth stared at the ceiling for a moment, then slowly brought herself into a sitting position. She winced a little, her whole body felt like it had just been struck by a car, and her lungs urged her to cough. Instead, she swallowed all notions of letting pain overcome her and looked Holmes in the eye.

"I don't think you should be trying to move. You have had a rough time of it recently."

"The urge is there, but don't expect a repeat of last time. I'm not too keen about your sitting room right now, every time I'm in there I seem to get hurt."

Holmes smiled briefly. "So it would seem."

"Would you humour a request of mine, no matter how ridiculous it might seem?"

"Perhaps."

"Let me have that ring back, never mind where I said it came from."

Holmes flipped the ring from side to side. "This is very curious a ring, Miss Lestrade, and that you should know I have one like it, and to say I gave this one to you for safe keeping. This is more than unusual, even for you."

"I'd answer you if I could, but I don't have any explanations. Crazy things just keep happening, like that ring of your mom's I found in a stream. I know it's asking a lot, but could you accept -you don't have to believe- just accept that in some zany world you asked me to hold onto it."

Sherlock paled considerably. Pulling up a chair and sitting down, he locked eyes with her and in a chilled voice asked, "who told you that ring belonged to my mother?"

"The best I can answer is that it was another dream, one where I read the writing on the inside of the band."

He let out a short huff that was mostly out of consternation. "You leave me with few options, but I do -as always- accept that you are telling the truth to the best of your knowledge, no matter how fanciful that may be. I don't believe a word of it. However, I sit here with proof in my hand that what you say is not completely made up of delusions. But there are more rational ways to achieve what you say without chalking it up to dreams." He paused. "Fine. Wear it, keep it, do as you wish. There are enough memories tied to the other one, on your hand perhaps it won't remind me of them." Holmes dropped the ring on the bed and left.

Beth stared at the shut door clutching the ring lightly in her hand, wondering what about it cast such a dark shadow on the detective. Sighing, she slipped the ring back on her right hand, and curled up once again to try and rest. Although, she doubted she would sleep much, especially since Holmes had now picked up his violin and an eerie melody hung in the air. Frowning, she pushed the mystery from her mind to ponder other questions: Just how exactly was it suddenly 1889 again? And what part of all this was the dream?

Dr. John Watson came in mid afternoon to find his friend curled up in his arm chair staring blankly at the far wall. While this wasn't unusual, something in the detective's manner struck him as being very peculiar. Watson sat down in his accustomed spot and leaned on his knees to better face his friend.

"All right there, Holmes?"

Dark grey eyes lighted on the doctor's face. "She's alive."

A little confused, Watson sat back and asked, "who Holmes?"

The detective groaned. "Who do you think, Watson? She woke on the assistant mortician's table as they were getting her ready for autopsy, scared the assistant out of his wits."

Watson's face contorted in horror. "Good God, Holmes, you mean to tell me she just simply woke up?!"

"Apparently."

"But -but, the amount of blood she coughed up was more than enough to kill her twice over. How in the -this is impossible, simply beyond reason!"

"Believe me, dear doctor, I am well aware, but it lately it seems that it is normalcy that is the impossibility."

"I should say so. Where is she now?"

"Resting."

"No more fits?"

"Not yet."

"This is almost too much. I saw to her myself, she was clinically dead. No pulse, heartbeat, breath, nothing, she was ice cold." Watson rattled off, more as a check list to himself than anything. "And now she lives, astounding. How will you proceed from here? Is Mrs. Hudson keeping her on?"

Holmes uncurled himself. "Wild aborigines would find it difficult to remove Miss Lestrade from our dear housekeeper's side, so yes, she is staying."

"What do you think of it?"

"I think nothing of it."

Watson glared at him. "Holmes, that is the worst lie I think you've ever told."

Holmes turned to face him. "If I were lying, believe me it won't have been the worst, but I'm not. Mrs. Hudson is a caring woman, it does not surprise me in the slightest that she should latch onto Miss Lestrade as a surrogate daughter."

"All right, that answers one question, but you ignored the other."

"Did I?"

Watson huffed irritably. "I had asked you how you plan to go on from here. For the love of all things good, Holmes, she literally died in your arms and you expect me to believe it had absolutely no effect on you when she returned to you alive?"

"What effect, if any, were caused by her miraculous return to the land of the living and my dwelling on it are two different things entirely."

"Then she has effected some part of you." Watson smiled, seeing some hope for his colleague yet.

Holmes shot him an offended glance and pushed himself back in his chair. "Watson, you have an unfortunate tendency towards romanticism that borders on obnoxiousness. Had she come to enter another household I would not have been aware of her existence, even if I were to pass her on the street."

"Are you saying you can simply brush all this aside?"

The angular man snorted and leapt out of his chair in frustration. "There are days, Watson, where I believe you actually stop thinking and let those silly notions of yours run wild. Are you dull enough to assume that watching a girl die, then to receive word three days later that a horrendous error has been made and she lives, would not have an impact? I am human and subject to all that entails just as you are. Though I don't deny that I wish she hadn't darkened my doorstep in the first place."

Watson sat temporarily stunned by the outburst he had just witnessed. "You rather she were gone?"

"Quite, she's more a problem than anything. She actually expects me to believe all those dreams of hers are real in the physical sense." He was pacing, agitated that a woman, a _mad_ woman, had managed to derail him from his work, even if it had only been a week since his last case.

"Dreams?"

Holmes sighed. Watson, not having heard anything of the young lady's dreams beyond the first, was acceptably clueless.

Holmes massaged his forehead. "She's used it as an excuse for every strange little thing that has made itself known, the latest being this morning."

"And because you believe her to be insane you want her gone?"

"The fact that she is here is reason enough," Holmes barked. "Why should I care if a shrunken head bothers her? She is the damn maid!"

Despite himself, Watson started to chuckle and then out right laughed, causing Holmes to treat him to a pointed narrowing of his eyes, laced with utter loathing. "You talk as if you were married to the girl."

Holmes sneered, repulsed by the very idea. "Do not insult me, were I to marry it would not be to some delusional child like her." He lit a cigarette and leaned on the fire mantel.

Watson was indignant. "Holmes, she is not a child."

"Elizabeth is nothing but a child," he shouted, slamming his fist on the wall. "I would wager my reputation that she is barely over twenty, if that." Watson opened his mouth to reply, but a knock at the door kept him from voicing his opinion.

"What?" Holmes snipped as the door opened and Mrs. Hudson appeared, card in hand, looking like she would rather be anywhere but there.

"There's a gentleman caller for you, he said if you were busy he would be more than happy to return at a later time."

Holmes snatched the card from her, his anger instantly gone. "No, no, that's all right Mrs. Hudson, let Mr. Keller in and bring around some tea, if you would be so kind. Well Watson, it appears we have a new case, if you would do me the honour of staying around."

"I should be delighted, Holmes."

"Excellent."

Mr. Keller had hardly been in the consulting room five minutes when he, Dr. Watson, and Holmes came bounding out the door and down the stairs. Dr. Watson and Mr. Keller went immediately outside to hail a cab, while Holmes came to a halt just short of knocking Mrs. Hudson over with the tea tray.

"No time for tea now, Mrs. Hudson and don't bother with dinner tonight, I do not expect to be back anywhere close to a decent hour."

The middle aged woman rolled her eyes in an exasperated fashion and made her way back to the kitchen shaking her head. Holmes flashed a quick smile at the landlady's retreating back and made for the door, only to stop with his hand on the knob and spin sharply around.

Standing off to the side of the staircase, nearly half way down a hallway that led to Mrs. Hudson's part of the house was the petit brunette Holmes had just spent the better part of half an hour filling Watson in on. Clad in an unadorned light peach dress and slippers, she stared at him through almond shaped blue eyes made larger by the ghostly complexion clinging to her. Her brown hair, now hanging slightly below her shoulders, had been half pulled back and had a wispy quality to it that hadn't been there previously. Her arms hung limp, but locked at her sides, a small glitter on her right hand caught his eye.

Unconsciously, Holmes's expression went from nonexistent to obvious nausea and revulsion. Beth's countenance remained blank, her gaze never lifting from the detective as she slowly made her way towards him, using the wall for balance. Holmes snapped his attention from her hand to her face at her movement. She stopped a foot shy of him, chancing her ability to stand unassisted. He took in her appearance top to bottom, then met her steely gaze with ease.

"I can't do it," she said listlessly, bringing her hand within inches of his face without a tinge of kind intentions. "You're not worth the energy I don't have."

Holmes stared at her, showing only mild hints at what might have been confusion. He broke eye contact and turned once again for the door, leaving Beth where she stood. She could hear Watson and the other man asking what kept him, and his usual sardonic reply flowing crisply off his tongue. Holmes looked back at her only when closing the door.

"Children come in all ages, Holmes."

His eyes flashed and he smiled humourlessly. "I'm sure," he said cleanly. A breath he hadn't realized he had been holding escaped once the door clicked shut behind him, followed by a silent, tempestuous huff.

Watson, noticing the dark glint in Holmes's eye, decided to inquire. "Something wrong, Holmes?"

"Nothing to worry about Watson, just a final word with the dear Mrs. Hudson."

Watson frowned. "Funny, I didn't hear her."

Holmes clapped the doctor on the back, grinning. "That's because you can't hear an eye roll, my friend."

Watson broke into a smile and chuckled. "No, that's true, you can't and it's quite the pity because hers usually say volumes."

Holmes laughed. "I quite agree. Now let us be on our way. What say you Mr. Keller?"

"The sooner the better," the gentleman said, gesturing to the open cab door. A contemplative grin crossed his handsome face and he tapped Watson on the shoulder. "I say, Dr. Watson, who's the lady in the window?"

Watson looked up to the front window. "Oh, that's-"

"Elizabeth, our landlady's daughter," interrupted Holmes. Watson regarded him curiously, but said nothing.

Mr. Keller whistled. "If looks could end a man where he stood we wouldn't be long for this world by her."

"More like just one of us." Watson said, fixing an accusing eye on Holmes. "Your last minute word, Holmes?" He said in lower tones.

Holmes cleared his throat, stepping into the cab as he spoke. "Never mind, Watson. Onward then, gentlemen."

* * *

_A/N January 2010_

_The phrase "living dead girl" is a direct reference to the song of the same by Rob Zombie._

_"Land of Sand" is a song originally made for the Disney movie Mary Poppins. Never used, the tune was reused for Kaa's song in The Jungle Book. Hear the original on my you tube page.  
_


	6. Fractured Fairy Tales

Beth watched the three men leave wishing she could run out after them, stop them, then knock Holmes upside the head as hard as she could. She let the curtain slide from her fingers once the cab had disappeared and sank to the floor, arms around her knees. Her eyes blurred and she buried her head in her skirt. She was tired. Walking up to the first floor had taken a lot out of her, perhaps more than she had to give.

She wasn't sure what had prompted her to try and follow Holmes, other than to find new scenery. But followed she had, into the servants stairwell at least, where she sat on the top step and listened to him play. Beth wished desperately she had woken up deaf; the crying of the violin pierced her heart with angry needles of guilt. She had no idea what emotion of Holmes's the sounds represented, but she knew how they made her feel. They made her feel like she was fifteen again listening to her parents argue, like her first kiss had been a joke, like her heart was being squeezed in a vice and all she wanted to do was smash everything in sight. Then the music stopped, shortly after Watson came up and the two entered into a discussion of which Beth could clearly hear each word. Then a client appeared and they started to make their leave.

He had noticed her at the last, when some unknown force led her to stand at the edge of the hall and his eyes had been ice. The chill that surged through the air, freezing her soul made her angrier than she could ever remember being -he blamed her for everything. In his eyes it was all her fault that the world was upside down and backwards. Her own eyes had watered then, from both illness and anger, for his gaze was utterly without warmth, and while she meant to truly slap him, her will it seemed wasn't her own. She stopped her hand a hair shy of his cheek and flat out lied to him as every desire save one drained out of her. A dull spark appeared in his cold grey eyes and then he was gone.

When the door shut behind him she felt like crying; crying because she was sick, tired, scared, angry, and a whole host of other things she couldn't clearly identify. She hadn't cried then, she didn't want to cry now, but with her forehead pressed against her knees she couldn't help it. One by one, Beth watched soft warm drops fall onto her skirt and disappear. Soon they were trickling down her cheeks in a steady stream and she closed her eyes, pressing harder into the rich darkness of her dress. The sensation of someone dabbing at her eyes caused her to bolt up in unrestrained fear.

She blinked, feeling the last threads of her mind snap. First a gothic 19th century morgue, now a far too sterile 22nd century hospital room. What in God's name was wrong with her?

"Inspector Lestrade?"

She turned. Watson, in all his robotic glory stood over her wearing an expression of utmost concern, a hand chief poised in his left hand. Strangely, his elasto-mask suddenly didn't look like the human Watson to her anymore. The face seemed too wide, the moustache wrong in style, and while she couldn't clearly remember what colour his eyes had been, she was sure it wasn't hazel.

"Inspector?" The robot repeated.

Beth Lestrade shivered and pulled her gaze away. "Sorry, I, uh . . . what's today's date and what am I doing in a hospital bed?"

Watson stumbled uncomfortably. "Well, it's the twenty-fourth of December and surely you haven't forgotten about what was scheduled for the nineteenth."

Beth went numb. "Where's Holmes?"

Watson let out an exasperated sigh. "He was on the phone with Gregson explaining everything, because of course no one bothered to tell him anything until today. Last minute as always."

"Ask him to come here will you."

"Sure."

The robotic man disappeared into the hall and returned moments later with Holmes behind him, who smiled genially at her.

"Merry Christmas, Lestrade, I trust you are feeling well."

In the seconds it took Holmes to lay his coat over the end of her bed, Beth had leapt up, turned off Watson, and all but fell into Holmes's arms in tears. Startled, he nearly fell backwards with her weight, but managed to keep them both standing. He went rigid feeling her fingers curl at the base of his neck; he had yet to put his arms around her.

Sternly he addressed her, "Lestrade, what is the matter with you? This is twice now you've acted out with no due reason. The first was admittedly silly and of no consequence, but," he faltered feeling her choke back a sob. His resolution failed. "But this time it seems that something is truly wrong, what is it?"

Beth loosened her arms around his neck and spoke softly into his shirt. "I'm going crazy and I don't know what to do, because everything seems real then I wake up somewhere else."

Holmes frowned and set her down on the edge of the bed, watching her closely. "Your dreamland antagonist again?"

Beth shook her head. "No."

"Then what?"

"You. If it's not him, it's always you . . . in a room, a cab . . ."

"Lestrade look at me and trust that I know exactly what I'm saying. Have you ever considered that these dreams of yours became stronger once you stared on the vitamins Sir Evan gave you?"

"Holmes, what vitamins?"

He looked at her incredulously. "Come now, you cannot expect me to believe that you don't remember taking vitamins every day for the past three months."

Beth curled up. "The last thing I remember doing before -I don't know, falling asleep- is heading down the stairs at 221b to the kitchen on September 18th, past that -for me it was mid July of 1889."

She continued before Holmes could say anything. "I woke up in a morgue and you came for me, but it ended badly this time . . . I could hardly believe it, but I knew the look in your eyes. You hated me. You hated the fact I was there, that you felt responsible, that I was wearing this damn ring on my finger."

She was mad, frustrated and more than confused, firmly believing she had lost her mind. So what did it matter anymore? If she was nuts, then why not embrace it and prove it. Beth stared hard into his eyes, almost trying to telepathically show him what happened.

"In 1889, you treat me like an obnoxious kid sister who suffers from dementia. Here I haven't -for whatever reason- driven that warm spark in your soul sucking eyes away, but you think I'm dreaming. I think I'm crazy."

Holmes breathed deep and let it out slowly. "You know your mind better than I. Lestrade, I'm truly sorry I let you go through Sir Evan's procedure since you so firmly believe in the fractured state of your mind, because things will not get easier as time progresses."

She stared at him awe struck. "That's it? No opinion, no theory as to what is going on?"

He ran a hand through his hair, something he did not often do. "What do you want, would you prefer I agree with you?"

"Hell, I don't know, I just . . ."

"I don't have answers to give, only questions."

Beth slammed her fist into the mattress. "I'm tired of this. I want to know what's going on and what the point is."

"If that were known, there would be no point."

"Holy . . ." She wiped her cheeks dry on the sheet. "For once in your life can you give me a straight answer?"

"Lestrade, you are under a lot of stress and it was to be expected to a degree, but I suggest you rest for now and we continue this later. If you cannot, as you say, remember anything from the last three months I must consult Sir Evan's and his medical staff. The high fevers you have had this week alone were cause for concern, I now fear they may have done you harm."

She poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher on the side table and drank it, "Feverish? Me? No way," as she batted away his hand.

"Lestrade, please lie down, I have no desire to force you."

"Then don't touch me," she snapped, eyeing the hand he had once again extended toward her.

"Please, Lestrade."

"I said no! Get that through your head."

Holmes sighed. "Very well. I do hope you will forgive me."

It surprised her how fast he could move, so much so that he had one wrist bound in a leather strap before her brain registered what was happening. Even more to her surprise, was that she hadn't noticed the straps in the first place.

"Holmes, stop it!" She attempted to push him away with her feet, as he wrestled her flat against the bed. "Are you crazy? There's no reason to do this, I'll nap when I'm tired."

"Unfortunately, I know first hand how often you take it easy, which is never." He fastened the buckle and sat beside her. "And I did not say you should nap, I said you should rest. You really must consider your health for once, especially now."

His voice faded and his eyes trailed off, focussing on nothing in particular. He stood to leave only to find Beth had latched onto his wrist, her violet-blue eyes burning into him. It took him a moment to realize she was actually afraid and pleadingly asking him to stay.

He smiled humorously. "The bogey-man isn't real, Lestrade."

"But this is and you know it."

"As you wish then, I shall stay," he said, taking a seat beside the bed. "Leave it to you to remind me how old I really am."

"Feeling like a grandfather are we?"

Holmes chuckled. "Something along those lines, perhaps."

She squeezed his hand, bringing him to look at her with a mix of curiosity and uneasiness.

"Don't freak, I mean nothing by it." She whispered. "I always dream when I'm alone, except now I'll know this is reality if I start to dream with you here."

"Fair enough."

Beth started blinking. "What did you put in that pitcher of water when I wasn't looking? I'm having trouble keeping my eyes open."

"Ah, yes, that would be a tasteless, odourless sleep powder I came across in the late '80's. It's completely harmless, but you will sleep for sometime."

"You know, sometimes you are a sneaky little-"

"Come now, do you really want to finish that sentence."

Beth didn't answer, her whole body felt heavy and she knew she didn't have long before she was out cold. For a moment her mind cleared and she fully understood what was happening to her, but understanding tends to be a fleeting, temperamental thing and she forgot the moment she thought it.

* * *

"Damn it all, Miss Lestrade!"

The unforgiving tone abruptly ringing in her ears, rather than the words themselves brought Beth to raise her eyes to the man standing over her. Her fingers clutched the folds of her dress tightly, as the wood floor seemed to fall out beneath her. It was late night, _very_ late and she was still on the sitting room floor feeling distinctly ill. She had been dreaming. A hand pulled her sharply to her feet, which buckled slightly from having been in the same position for such a long time. Cool, fiery grey eyes pierced her, demanding every ounce of her attention willing or not.

Holmes swallowed before speaking again, forcing his voice to sound calm, but the edges of his words were frayed and splitting. He looked her dead in the eye.

"I have been more than accommodating towards you, even to the point of interference with my work. My patience has been all but worn away. I will not tolerate this any longer, tomorrow morning you will be gone from this house. I've gone ahead and made arrangements with a nearby sanitarium and they shall be here for you no later than nine."

Beth started shaking and latched onto his arm, her mouth falling open in disbelief. _A sanitarium? But I'll . . ._ "I'll die . . ."

Holmes removed her hand. "I suppose you might if your health declines further, but you most certainly cannot stay here."

He turned his back on her to toss a few papers he had been holding onto the desk, Beth simply stared after him. "What's wrong with you?" She finally asked.

Holmes barely glanced over his shoulder. "Pardon? Wrong with me? Don't be ridiculous."

Beth shook her head. "I don't get it, but you are the biggest asshole I've ever met! How the hell can anyone stand you? The way I see it someone should have drown you at birth."

Now he was offended. "You WILL mind your language when under this roof. I will not tolerate such flippant usage of the English language, Americanised or not. Do we have an understanding?"

"I understand, I'll let you know when I begin to care."

Holmes balled his fists. "Forget waiting the five hours until nine, I'll take you myself!"

Beth watched him don his over coat again and turned away to gaze aimlessly at his desk, not wanting him to see the hurt and fear she couldn't keep from showing. He meant what he said and it horrified her. She would be thrown screaming into a cell that was more a coffin than a pine box with him on the other side turning the key and she was helpless to defend herself. What ever illness had her felt like a snake coiled tightly around her heart, cold and slithering, leaving her frozen from the inside out.

She tugged at a mildly ajar drawer and stared inside. It wasn't his fault. He would drop her off only to come back the next day to retrieve her and apologise in his usual round about way like always; right? He was on something again, she knew it. His case had been a childish exercise for him, so he had indulged himself, this wasn't him talking. It couldn't be; except the knot forming deep within wouldn't let her alone. He was going to follow through on his word and no amount of reasoning could banish the thought from her mind.

A sanatorium. In this era a person would be lucky to die quickly, avoiding full blown madness and the latest "medical" advancements still being tested. Panic began to over take her nerves. Would she suffer the fate of living at the mercy of doctors and nurses far more insane than their patients by way of so called humane care?

A cold, hard chill filled her past the point of mindless terror. What if she hadn't been dreaming before? What if . . . Beth pressed her hands gently on her stomach, gathering all the strength she could muster to keep herself from collapsing painfully into the desk. Slowly she regained control of her emotions enough to think about all the "what ifs" that had quite suddenly bombarded her, one being particularly persistent: what if _both_ places in time were real?

She focussed hard on the contents of the drawer, with no hope except that she would wake up to find her Sherlock Holmes sitting beside her, she faced the stern creature before her with a clear mind and decided heart. His back was to her, hands sifting through stacks of papers most likely searching for the sanatorium admittance forms. She almost said something, but the unknown words glued her mouth shut, to her he had ceased to be Sherlock Holmes. Pulling back the hand that had been reaching for his shoulder she slipped the syringe she had pocketed into her arm, the needle sliding in so easily she hardly knew it was there. Without a second thought she emptied the vial's invisible contents into her vein and let it drop to the floor.

Hours later Watson would be the one to discover them, a macabre picture hanging delicately between the peaceful silence and stale air in the room. Beth arranged like a sleeping child on the floor, a pillow behind her head and chestnut locks dancing round her colourless face. A rose among the thorns if he ever saw one, withered and grotesque against the cherry floor. Holmes had seemingly pulled his chair around him, legs thrust forward, and arms falling placidly into his lap. His dark grey-blue eyes were vacantly trained forward; the lack of light throwing him deep into shadows usually only statues possessed.

Watson felt his heart drop into his gut. He knew Holmes's black mood when he saw it, just as he knew their precious Elizabeth had long grown cold. With a heavy sigh he sought out Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen to give her yet another shock she did not deserve. It wasn't fair. How much more would that kind woman be permitted to suffer? As expected, the motherly housekeeper retreated to her room heartbroken, feeling too ill to cry any more, leaving Watson to tread back up the seventeen steps alone.

Nothing had changed, not even the dust particles in the air had shifted course. Watson placed an imploring hand on his friend's shoulder to which the man didn't respond. The doctor thought of his dear Mary and felt his heart sink even lower as his hand fell to his side. He had entertained high hopes that Beth would be the one to throw light onto the detective's dark path and inspire him to greater heights than the emotional standings of a brick wall. In a crude cruel way he supposed Beth had achieved that, but this wasn't one of Shakespeare's plays, it was life, it was _their_ life –or had been. They hadn't loved each other and what respect had been between them faded long before this night, but it seemed to him that some higher being had guided them towards this. His only question: was this the intended result? If not, where would the other path had led? Because the would-be heroine was dead and this story never had a hero.


	7. Wretched

He had seen the fear upon her delicate face, her hand reaching for him then retracting. He had heard the drawer, knowing what she would see inside and the conclusion she would come to. She would be angry with him. Soon he would endure her relentless questions and accusations, but to his surprise they never came. She would demand answers from him until he gave her something of an explanation, but she spoke not a sound to fill the pressing silence. A small, but powerful urge to look at her over came him and still he kept his back to her, pretending to search for something, anything; pridefully ignoring her every move until a decidedly familiar clink of a glass vial hitting the wood floor brought the world to pause in turn, his heart with it.

Her lovely countenance caught in the act of a gasp, her cheeks tinged lightly with pink. He had surprised her. She had not expected him to turn so quickly, or perhaps she had not expected him to do anything at all. The syringe had not stopped rolling on the floor before he had hold of her arm to see for himself the tiny needle mark, her passionate violet-blue eyes red rimmed and shining, locked on his. He wanted to speak, but it seemed she already knew what he was thinking. The drug would have a disastrous effect on her frail constitution, already her body was succumbing to shock. His hand loosed and her arm slipped till her hand was in his, and she fell against him unable to support her own weight.

Sherlock's mind reared, he did not want an encore and held her up demanding she look at him, demanding she fight. Caught unaware, even so he would never admit such a thing, but she, in one glance, had sent a sharp stab of fright to the core of his being. Her head tilted in, colourless lips flush and cool against his; he froze unbelievingly. A blue gaze bore into him, resembling tempered glass rather than human eyes, fluttering only to close instantly. He felt a rush of air against his cheek as she lost her breath completely and fell at his feet.

Bright grey eyes shot open to find the pale brunette peacefully arranged on the rug, a pillow behind her head. He had been re-living the evenings events again and again in his mind, unable to escape the overwhelming guilt devouring him. Her hand sat in his, like the hand of a doll, a pale pink porcelain hand with finely crafted fingers and nails. He could almost convince himself she was a doll with painted pink lips, highlighted cheek bones, and china blue eyes set off by straight chestnut locks.

A child's life sized doll.

He shut tight his eyes and laid her hand beside her before he crushed it. What the hell had he done? Child's doll indeed. Sherlock wrenched open the desk drawer, took one look at its contents and threw the whole thing across the room, breaking a small, half empty glass bottle along the floor. His footsteps followed the path debris to his favourite arm chair, in which he promptly threw himself, gazing darkly at the disturbing visage before him even as his vision blurred, and the air grew heavy and sweet. A sound tickled his ear, causing a pause in his decent into darkness. Curiously, his mind said it was a laugh he heard, but raising his eyes from the floor proved the room to be empty. His eyes fell once more, and again a sound brushed past his ear, this time . . . this time he couldn't begin the thoughts necessary to dismiss it.

_**"Come, come, don't blame yourself for the choices she made. It's not like you forced her . . ."**_

Holmes bolted out of his chair wide eyed, frantically looking around for the owner of the voice, which he could still hear chuckling softly.

_**"You know, the answers one seeks are most often found within themselves."**_

Holmes blinked, trying to calm himself. Surely he had reached a new level of madness, and this voice he was hearing was just a figment of his imagination. His eyes were as good as they always had been and there was absolutely no one in the room with him save one, and even if she had been a man she was . . .

Something smiled at him.

_**"Now there is an original thought, the only thing I can't see is how it proves you sane."**_

Holmes mouthed something incoherent and very nearly inaudible, but it made the smile chuckle genially.

_**"Why, Sherlock, is that fear I detect in your voice?**_

The voice lounged behind him, the settee indented where his body lay. Sherlock saw this and recoiled in silent horror, tripping over Beth's legs and nearly into the fireplace. Every prayer he had ever learned as a child came rushing back into his thoughts at a rapid pace. The man flat out laughed at him.

_**"You're nearly as entertaining as Elizabeth, although not as pretty." **_

The man sat up and swung his legs around, facing Holmes with a solid form, his lips twisted up in a smirk, chuckling once again as Sherlock backed himself into the wall completely speechless.

_**"I'm terribly sorry, have I frightened you?"**_ The horrible little smile never left his face.

In a flash, Sherlock Holmes was awake, throwing himself back in his chair. He tore his eyes around the room to make certain that it was December 24, 2104 and _not_ September 21, 1889. A soothing sense of relief washed over him upon finding nothing out of the ordinary in the hospital.

Relief soon gave way to a chill. He had been dreaming. A cold sweat trickled down his brow. He pulled his hand free of Lestrade's and wiped at his forehead with his shirtsleeves, letting out a deep breath. Was his dream the same kind of madness that visited Lestrade? A dream so real it was like a memory?

He gazed upon the sleeping Inspector and felt another rush of relief seeing every inch of her tingling with life. She lay on her side, mouth barely open with a few strands of loose hair dancing with each breath. Without thought he swept away the hair that had fallen in her face, his fingers brushing her cheek as they passed. A rare, natural smile painted its way across his aquiline countenance as he curled his fingers to his palm, savouring the warmth he felt from her. He was still smiling, eyes on his closed hand when her cool finger touched his face, jarring him out of his thoughts.

She gazed at him strangely, her deep blue eyes locked onto his face, and to his eyes questioningly. She said not a word, and to his own dismay Sherlock realised he was the reason why. For in the brief seconds her fingers hand been in contact with his skin, he had apparently -and automatically- pulled away, and now he sat staring at her, eyes wide open, and continued to stare. Finally, he tore his eyes away from her, looking at everything but her in an attempt to fortify himself.

The moment his name slipped off her tongue, imploring him to say something, his eyes found hers again and he did the only thing he could think of -he left. To look back on his actions later he might very well declare them idiotic and unfounded, but it was one thing to live in a moment where you _know_ the world is off and quite another to try and analyse it within the boundaries you consider normal. Another idea would be that he might simply have been too scared to stay.

* * *

**_I feel a little bad about this being so short, but this was where it naturally ended for me. I still can't believe it took me so long to write this, but I re-wrote the whole thing twice, and I'm now happy with it. Well, hit me up and tell me what you think. I have other things going on at the moment, but I promise that chapter eight has been started._**


	8. To Believe In The End

The trepidation in her voice faltered as he ran out the door, gazing at where he had been something within snapped in twine, resonating deep inside her. She screamed after him, the restraints still fastened tightly as she strained against them, reaching for the door. The small click of metal against metal pressed on her mind. She never noticed that while the restraints remained around her wrists, they had been undone bedside and had tangled beneath her. She threw her eyes away from the door in a sob to the floor, to the chair where he had sat and froze.

Brilliantly blue orbs that once held the glimmer of assured sanity, now burned bright with the assurance of calamity. A self indulgent madness if you will, she refused to avert her gaze from the image burning itself into her mind. It held no shine laying half hidden in the shadow of the arm twisted like a tiny garden snake, the sliver almost grey, but there it sat, waiting. It must have fallen out of his pocket as he took up his coat. It hadn't been there before hand, she knew that. He never would have placed it there himself, so an accident it must be.

She blinked.

How?

How did he come to posses, of all things, that chain? Her heart beat loudly in her chest as saltine pearls fell from her eyes and her head touched the pillow once more. Abruptly, as if doubting her own senses, she reached out, snatching the chain within her pale fingers and dangled it in the light.

Different.

It was a different chain.

Oh Lord, she felt like laughing and would have had she not noticed the small tear drop pendant no bigger than the tip of her pinky, a pearl neatly cradled in its base. It was a beautiful necklace, truly it was, but it raised questions that she found herself very nearly afraid of, the line of which even more so. Almost despairingly she prayed it belonged to a client of his, a clue on one of his cases perhaps. She found her thinking ludicrous and brushed it aside, curling back into a ball upon the bed, the necklace tangled in her palm. If she thought hard enough she could almost feel the tingle he left in the tips of her fingers draining into her.

_Damn it all. I've got to knock this off, it's not like it'll do me any good thinking this way._

But the more she stared at her hand the more she realised it wasn't the tingle she was recalling it was something else, something much more. What exactly had transpired in the head of that brilliant man was a mystery to her, and one, if the undefined wild look in his eyes had been any indication, she didn't want the answer to. There was something though, she had heard it very faintly in his breathing and now she heard it in her own.

Honey and wine is what she had reminded him of, the feel of honey and wine on his lips. The memory of the dream had roared to life in his veins when she said his name in the same small breath she had drawn before she had pooled at his feet. Subconsciously he licked his lips, touching them at the last, surprising himself greatly. In the empty hall he lowered his eyes and sank to the floor with his back against the cold wall. This simply could not be, but it danced in front of his inner vision with sultry moves as warming to his soul as the grave. A pool of heat grew within him making him feel drunk, but he couldn't bring himself to run farther away. Her terrified voice screaming for him had turned his feet to lead and still the recollection of her dying breath pressed upon him would not leave his lips. God send him to hell for the small part of him that wanted to relive it all just for the taste.

Watson called out to him then, standing before him like the unwavering rock he was. When exactly the robot had appeared he never took notice, but he was here now and met his friend's gaze unguarded. Brown eyes widened in surprise and he knelt beside the detective, for once not saying a thing, unsure how to proceed. As strange as the situation was, it was even more so to watch all emotion fade from the detectives eyes as quickly as it had appeared. Somewhere within his circuitry Watson was greatly alarmed by it all, and very anxious over the progression between Holmes and Lestrade. After careful consideration and deliberation, he had decided the whole situation bore tragedy to come as neither of his friends met any example of healthy individuals. At least, not in his mind. Now, he believed he understood their hesitation at first receiving Sir Evans news and a few of their arguments since then, but something still didn't sit right with him. It wasn't jealousy on his part, oh goodness no. He rather was enthusiastic over the chance to meet his name sake, to meet the man behind the journals. Experiences and friendships help shape a person, and John Watson had lived a full life outside those worn pages that he hadn't a clue about. Mentally he sighed, bringing his attention back to the lithe man sitting on the floor who was fidgeting something awful, _better to play ignorant at times I suppose._

"This is all quite wrong, my dear man. I cannot allow the thought of it all to overwhelm me like this again. I owe her more than that," the blond man spoke at last.

"Holmes?"

A little pale and unaware of his excess energy, Sherlock looked up and gave a light smile. "Never mind, Watson, it's a complicated bit of business at best and I have no desire to burden you with it as well."

The elasto-mask wrinkled, showing his confusion. "By all means, Holmes, if that is the way you want it I certainly won't pry. Just, if it should become too much-."

"I know, Watson, and you have my thanks."

Watson smiled gently. "Very well. Now, perhaps we should see what caused the Inspector such distress?"

"Heard her, did you?" Holmes asked, a cigarette appearing in his hand by a flick of the wrist. He lit it moments later.

"Yes." Watson replied cautiously, standing as he spoke. "Are you coming with me?"

After a contemplative drag, eyes focussed down the length of the paper he averted his attention half heartedly to the man. "Watson, may inquire something of you?"

"Of course."

"Knowing me as you do, why did you not head directly to Lestrade's room?"

Watson gazed down at him a little taken back. "Because, well, ah . . . I don't think you want to hear it."

Holmes glared at him from between tendrils of smoke. "Nonsense. Out with it now; why?"

The good robot sighed. "Because it appeared that you had tears in your eyes, my friend. Compared to that, Lestrade screaming is commonplace."

"Watson, if you would see to Lestrade I would be much obliged as it is me she is more than likely angry with, and Gregson requested I pay a visit to his office the moment I was able, so I shall be leaving."

Watson stared at the detective blankly as he got to his feet and straightened himself out, all trace of what mood he had been in gone. Holmes eyed him reproachfully, his cigarette precariously balanced between two fingers.

"Well, are you going to her bedside or not?"

"Aren't you?" Watson stated indignantly.

Holmes frowned. "I was just there, you deal with her."

"Are you all right, Holmes?" He asked as the lean man turned away from him, towards the elevators.

The detective paused and glanced over his shoulder at his metal companion. "I shall have to be," and with that he was gone.

Step after step echoed off the London streets, no longer made of cobblestone, but synthesized cement, hollow sounding and cold; alone though thousands had tread upon it's eternally smooth surface. Walking with his head bent into the Christmas snow, flakes dancing round his wind blown dirty blond hair, he couldn't begin to fathom how dark he felt inside. Each step away from the hospital brought forth thoughts of an end to it all, many endings, every last one of them a sure ticket to a worse hell. Pausing atop a bridge to survey the frozen waters below Sherlock Holmes was struck with the realisation Christmas had never made him happy and for the first time he wondered if he were the insane one.

Briefly and quite possibly madly, he though of seeking his brother out, but dismissed it almost immediately. He was through playing his elder brother's games of superiority, which it seemed was all the man was good for in any century. A sardonic huff escaped Sherlock as he forced himself to once again move in the direction of the Yard. A game of superiority indeed, Mycroft would laugh at him in his own peculiar way simply to hide the fact that his little brother had managed to stump him with his bizarre domestic problems.

_Domestic problems._ Sherlock Holmes nearly fell to his knees at the thought, chuckling madly. Fate surely mocked him, so why not join in their laughter.

* * *

Nearly midnight and Gregson be dammed. The man could stress himself into an early grave for all he cared, which was precisely why Holmes had stood him up. He did _not_ belong to that overweight excuse for a public servant, and he would most certainly not go out of his way to fill him in on the particulars of his personal life. 

Personal life.

The phrase made him want to laugh. He had no personal life, even when he retired he had been working on some experiment or another. It had been his reason for life for a very long time. Hell, it was the reason he and that damnable woman of an Inspector ever met. The whole point of his being alive, again, was to stop Moriarty, again; a man who should be dead, _is _dead.

Holmes reclined on the settee, an unlit cigarette poised between limp fingers brushing the floor, staring at the ceiling with a knitted brow. What was in a memory? Truly; some fired off, or fried, brain cells of some long dead man still encased in a damn block of ice, a vial, or honey? Who was the new man to claim to be the old? Moral standing aside- obviously a false statement, for who, in all, could succeed in pushing it aside- even the devil knew what truth was. So why should humanity be so quick to play advocate out of mere curiosity when they knew nothing of anything? At this game, should actions even be held accountable on the debatable topic of souls? Perhaps worse still, the thought of rapid decay, or its equally unnatural opposite setting in without a moments notice.

_We should have been left as dead, for all I know we still are._ "Do we even have the right to call ourselves human?"

Deep grey eyes narrowed as he curled his lips into a mocking twist thrown violently darker within the confines of the dim room when an abrupt shower of glass and flame hit the wood floor. Holmes watched as feathers danced in the fuel and fire with an erotic sway, illuminating his gothic form on the cranberry walls. Briefly he stood transfixed by it all, not in the least perturbed by his consideration of simply letting the flat burn to the ground -with him in it-, before putting out the small blaze with a fire extinguisher.

"So this is how you've been getting on, eh Sherlock? Throwing couch pillows into perfectly good lamps and then watching it burn a hole in your floor, grand usage of time. Better people than you have asked themselves that very question and still God spoke to them."

Sherlock rounded about sharply. Shock melted into surprise when he saw the man before him, who casually smiled at him and settled his considerable frame into a near-by arm chair. After a moment of simply staring at the other, the heavier man gestured to the chair opposite him, then removed his gloves, placing them in his lap.

"You didn't recognise my voice."

"On the contrary, I knew it immediately, but was thrown because- do forgive me- I didn't believe you capable of sneaking up on me."

Bright, watery-grey eyes narrowed, giving the man's large white forehead the appearance of moving forward and his straight nose an awkward sense of length. Sherlock gave him the quickest of smiles and near tossed himself into his seat, his gaze never leaving the other man.

Eventually, the man began to chuckle, prompting Sherlock to curl his lip, eyes twinkling.

"Rather amusing between ourselves isn't it?"

"It can be. Cigarette?"

The man declined the offer with a wave, choosing instead to continue staring at him with the utmost attention. For a good five minutes afterward, silence reigned over the two men. Finally, with the press of his over thin lips and a swallow that moved his thick neck, Sherlock's visitor spoke.

"You were decidedly blond as a lad, but surely your hair was as dark as mine by the time you were twenty."

"Side effect from being brought back from the dead."

"The process tampered with the pigmentation, or was unable to reinstate all of it?"

"The latter."

"How curious."

"My words exactly upon catching sight of myself in a mirror."

The man laughed heartily. "Sherlock Holmes a permanent blond, what a joke, and with a full head of it no less."

Sherlock smiled in good humour. "You don't dye your hair."

The larger man sat up rigidly. "Good Lord no."

"Ah, then it is my fault. Hm? Oh, I changed an ingredient in the preservative, very minor."

"It was enough to turn your hair."

"Yes, what I was unaware of at the time was that the chemical I chose would eventually be proven useful as a bleaching agent."

"I suppose availability prompted the change."

"It did."

"Your Inspector Lestrade, how is she doing? A prolonged visit to the hospital is no laughing matter in any age."

"Who asks?" His tone void of the geniality it previously held.

The man huffed, slightly affronted. "Who do you think, my boy."

"I would like to think you. What brings you here, Mycroft?"

Mycroft Holmes shifted his massive bulk to better gaze at his younger brother, his strange eyes implying more curiosity and depth than before. He sighed, tapped at his gloves with a sausage like finger, resolve entering his expression at the last.

"You have my word, Sherlock, that I am the one asking. What is said today will not leave this room."

The change in the demeanour of the younger Holmes was instantaneous, the guarded and aloof exterior fell away to reveal a troubled man imploring his brother for assistance by gaze alone. Mycroft in turn, was beside himself. He had known something was amiss with his brother the moment he had entered the room to hear him near damning God and his presence had gone unnoticed. If he were to admit it, he had seen Sherlock come undone before on several occasions, but never with this personal a feel embedded in his being.

"Forgive me, but this idea will not leave me, you aren't planning on what I believe the Americans call a 'shotgun wedding' are you?"

For a moment Sherlock just stared at his elder brother, his face without a trace of colour. Mycroft stared back in horror of his brother.

"My God, Sherlock, Lestrade she isn't-."

"She is and it isn't!" Sherlock barked, leaping up to light a match on the mantel and press the tiny yellow flame to the cigarette now in his lips.

"Explain yourself, boy," Mycroft spoke in warning as the former started to pace, "have you intentions of marrying?"

With wild eyes, the detective rounded on the corpulent man before him. "Marry! Are you mad? That woman drives me insane."

Mycroft openly glared in anger. "Then what the devil is going on, and why are you hot under the collar about it?"

"Eyes and brains failing you?" He snapped sardonically.

"Get a hold of yourself." Mycroft forced himself to stand and physically restrain his brother. "I am no mind reader, William, you must tell me."

"Lestrade, she . . . it's John." It barely came out as a whisper before the agitated man broke free and collapsed upon the sofa.

The elder Holmes seemed to stagger for a moment, then sat down heavily with an audible crack. Sherlock paused to glance at the source of the noise with a raised brow, strangely enough it was distraction enough to return him to some semblance of control.

Mycroft turned to him. "I believe I will take you up on a dash of brandy."

Sherlock chuckled noiselessly, pouring two glasses of the amber liquor then, handing one off, asked quietly, "doesn't our situation bother you?"

Mycroft met his gaze and sighed through his nose. "Has anyone ever told you that you think too much?"

The younger man smiled colourlessly. "I have heard something of the sort."

"Well then I will tell you this, Sherlock," Mycroft looked down, swirling the contents of his glass, "what is done is done by faulty notions of all sorts, what is said is held against you by man regardless, and the rest is God's problem. You want answers you can't have. You always have."

Mycroft downed his glass, took to his feet with a grunt, set the glass on the mantel and looked back at his brother while donning his gloves. With an austere smile he walked straight and heavily to the door, turning back once.

"Just because we can't remember, doesn't mean we weren't held while we slept. Oh, and I came by because it's Christmas, my dear boy, familia and all that nonsense. Speaking of which, you should find something nice for that Inspector lady, she's too good to put up with you day to day, even I can't do that."

Sherlock tipped his glass to his lips, "ah," then brought it back down again, "I did actually get her, something."

Mycroft raised his brows as only the Holmes men seemed capable of. "Without a single bit of prompting from anyone?"

A twitch of Sherlock's lips transformed Mycroft's surprise into a light hearted chuckle. "Now the trick is, did you get her something nice, or something you think practical? Oh, something nice then, if your face is any indication."

"Come now, Mycroft."

"Embarrassing you am I?"

"You make me out to be better than I am. I only purchased the gift today on a whim, I haven't even wrapped it."

"You still have time, it's only the eve of. By the way, what did you get her?"

"A necklace," Sherlock said, moving to dig through the pockets of his coat, which had been haphazardly flung over the back of a chair. "A necklace," he said with a frown, "that I no longer have."

Mycroft made a grimace. "Bad luck, my boy. I can't say I envy you."

Sherlock placed one finger against his lips. "Never you mind that, I know where I dropped it. She's probably already found it."

"Then you save on paper."

"I would gladly pay for the paper as I fear I may pay with her sanity, or my eardrums. Don't worry, I have no intention of speaking of the emotions of women," he added, catching his brother's eye.

"Good, I would say I have heard enough of it tonight."

"Mycroft!"

A deep chuckle emanated from the mass that currently blocked the whole of the doorway. "Good-night, Sherlock. I shall send you my address later this week, I expect business for me to double in the next three days and my time will be short."

Sherlock motioned to him with a dismissive wave and another twitch of his pressed lips. Picking up his coat, he took to his brother's heels. "I will follow you out as I have no doubt I shall have to save Lestrade from herself."

"You have a decided way with the opposite sex, no doubt."

"You would think I might have picked up a thing or two from John Watson, but I am quite the shallow actor I assure you," Sherlock said once out on the street, locking the door behind him, and watching as his brother stepped into a cab.

Penetrating grey eyes settled just past him on the building, then upon himself. "Do stop lying to yourself. Train station, cabbie."

Nothing more, and certainly nothing less than claiming last words saw Mycroft Holmes disappear north down Baker street and round a corner, leaving Sherlock standing in the snow covered sidewalk with more questions than he had started with, but nothing of his previous mood. The dark blond detective shrugged deeper into his winter coat, wondering after the man that was his brother and deciding that this was the most singular holiday he had yet to live through.

* * *

_**I declare this chapter done! Took me long enough too, but I found it worth the effort (and the blocks), and the time (and more "how the hell should I phrase this?"). Almost begging you to, but not quite (I write for writings sake, and my sanity), please review! Let me know what thoughts passed through your wonderful minds! Thanks for reading, **_

_**Anna**_


	9. Faces in the Light

He cursed himself into the deepest depths of Hell, if only because it painted a prettier picture than what he was currently engaged in. How he had managed to find the place and allow himself to be side tracked was not a train of thought he relished, yet here he lay watching the room, amongst other things, sway before him. Spots seemed to dance upon the crude ceiling, the cluttered floor seemed to dance with the spots, and the whitewashed walls with burgundy draping bled into a vulgar mist that always prevailed where darkness reigned. All this swirled within him to a sound that might at one point been an actual beat, but having come to this place, lost itself entirely. Barrie could keep his damnable Neverland, he thought, pressing his thin lips tightly to a rolled cigarette. A hiss of air accentuated the slight cackle of burning paper and leaves before dying down to a small tendril of rancid smoke swaying like a whore caught in a fairy-ring.

Voices blended into a nonexistent murmur, accompanied by scents strong enough to choke the weary out of their hearts as their money bled from their torn pockets. Movement in hazy corners stirred him in places God fearing men refused to travel. A momentary frown and lick of dry lips, he turned his eyes back to the haphazardly patched ceiling unaware he had looked away at all until heavily painted eyes loomed above him, forcing his breath to turn sharp and his innards to coil in repugnance. A pretty smile promising pretty things stood before him, and all he saw was the face of another, which more than anything made his blood curdle. Brandishing his dying cigarette into a near by clay pot, he smiled back, his eyes curving with the grin in a decided blackness. Surely the girl wasn't so foolish to try with him, save he had long held the notion that the ladies who frequented dens such as this ignored reason in pursuit of other favours, be it money, drugs, or to mark a gentleman's back so he must hide from his wife.

The young woman pressed her perfect Cupid's bow lips together, daring to try to lean down and brush his ear, her long, frosted pink nails playing with the fabric of his vest. He snarled when like a viper her tongue brushed the back of his earlobe, and with a betraying gracelessness he tossed the girl into three patrons behind her. A thick cloud of smoke hung, disrupted in its path, about him as he lowered his eyes to the poor child, such a tiny thing to be a fisher among men, lying on the floor with strands of her treated hair stuck to her bloodless cheeks. She stared up at him in terror, or was it anger -he could never tell in his current state- and more than a little surprise. Perhaps he looked like a demon to her, perhaps he was, perhaps he always had been.

She bolted when he smiled, without so much as an apology to those she bumped into and knocked over. A true sense of horror had overtaken her and without a thought she gathered what things she might have had and ran out the door with tears carving paths in her carefully arranged face. All she knew was that she needed to get away from the place, and away from the man who stared at her with something darker than regret in his eyes.

He didn't see her leave, to him she was another shadow moving across time and space, background noise and nothing more. Laughter caressed his ears, imagined or not he dismissed it, willing himself into the space that called him. It called him all sorts of things, things of truth and lies, things of no importance and merit, things he told only himself in the predawn that haunted all of humanity if they gave it half a mind. Taking up his previous position on what he might have recognized as large throw pillows when he first arrived, he added yet another dot to the multitude on his arm with a poisonous smile, thinking the whole while of the girl who thought to save him from himself.

_What happens when you give it the whole of your mind? __**You lose.**_

It was gentle, it didn't feel forced, but it smiled and kissed him deeply without being there. He swore it wasn't there, only the disgusting lapping of his gut threatened to convince him otherwise. He called out to a God he wasn't sure was listening at this point, and then wished things he aught to remove his mind and soak it in bleach for. He felt it, and yet he didn't. He felt _her_, and yet he knew otherwise. Twisting and cupping him, he blushed in horror, but the vines continued their assault, snaking and trapping until he could move no more. The laughter and voices turned into hoots and coos. Birds, he thought, and the house -had it been a room?- was no more. Nothing. Dark, dank, and tall woods, flickers of light teasing his eyes, and still he lay caught amongst the roots dreaming it seemed. Dreaming. _**Are you?**_

Light grey eyes flew to a sound on his right, alighting on a peaceful face with china blue eyes. She gave him no heed, his cries echoed off the unseen and still she didn't turn. Like a doll discarded she lay, a Snow White without a story, another girl dead in the wood. Watching the lights above him in a panic, he fought back and pulled at his restraints, hard. Taunt and catching, threatening to snap bones and render flesh, his left arm loosed enough to throw over and touch her. To touch nothing but a mirage would have given him relief, but to feel naught but the cold apple of her cheek . . .

Chilled to the marrow he strained to free himself further, eyes clenched. The briar round him snapped, wined, and bit at him. He heard the crack, and sweet sound of spilt juice and meat that dogs so love and still he pressed on so that he could just brush the image of her lips with his own. He had broken his arm, God knows what else, and opened his eyes. Startled blue met the wilderness that must have been his own and he simply lost it. Cradling her face in his good hand, he lost himself against her with unrestrained hunger. If he was dreaming, then let him damned, if it was real he was damned all the same. But by God, he would not let this vision of her depart without knowing something, anything, even if it was just a kiss . . . even if half of him was aware of the wood floor beneath him, that the vines might not be there, that he might be in the midst of another one of his episodes, that they might be dead, that it might have been him. It was when that last thought crossed his mind that she fell into step with him, and very nearly drank his soul away.

**"Holmes!"**

The voice that broke through was not one he had heard in years, decades, a life time, and it shattered his resolve. He whirled round to face a shorter man with sandy brown hair, and warm blue eyes. Sherlock could not keep the surprise from registering on his face, the wood, the vines, and . . . it was all gone, replaced by . . .

"John," he breathed, "my dear Watson."

His mouth gaped, much like a fish would out of water- was it any surprise then that his throat was also found to be dry? Watson smiled a terribly sad smile that reminded Holmes very much of the day Mary had died, and he saw, in that one moment, that something was very wrong with the world.

"I never followed my brother out of Baker street, did I?" He asked the apparition, who shook his head in the no, a grimace expressing familiarity etched on his face. "Thought not." Holmes regarded the other man with something akin to embarrassment. I must admit, I . . ."

"Drank the water without thinking?"

Holmes paused. "The water?"

"Yes," Watson moved towards him, a thoughtful air resting between them, "that Miss Lestrade very nearly drowned in it."

Holmes's eyes lit up. "Good Lord, she's been coming here?"

"Once or twice to my knowledge." Watson admitted, meeting his friend's gaze. "It's been a long time, Holmes."

"That it has, that it has. Are you aware . . ." He trailed off, as the doctor sighed.

"Of what is going on, yes, to some extent."

Holmes let off into an abrupt bout of laughter that nearly drifted into madness. "I simply must apologise, my meddling has pulled you into the middle of so much that you should not be burdened with . . . Watson, I, I am not myself anymore."

A strong hand clapped the detective's shoulder briefly. "It seems I am the one who should apologise."

"What ever for?" Holmes interrupted with a bit of a bark.

Watson chuckled lightly. "I wrote out our adventures, Holmes, and it seems to me that I've locked you to them even in your own mind. Everyone is entitled to a private life, even you. You are not those books, nor a machine -which by the way I find terribly amusing, albeit potentially disturbing." Holmes gave a short smile.

"Have you no quarrel, then?" He asked quietly, distinctly off key. "Are you two places at once?"

Dr. Watson gazed at him frankly. "The answer to that lies in higher powers than us, because I haven't a damn clue how we've all got round like this, but," he exhaled heavily, " I feel it my duty to tell you that Elizabeth Lestrade is not crazy, extremely tired, but sane."

Holmes's voice carried a chill. "You know of her tales."

"I know something follows her."

Holmes lost a bit of colour. "I believe I've seen it."

A quick wind swept round the two men, tunnelling their feet in leaves without origin. Holmes blinked, and realised that they were not in any forest, but beside a small stream with a very large oak tree in an advanced state of decay.

"Is this . . ." His voice was barely audible, "should Lestrade."

Watson held up a hand to stop him. "Wake up, Sherlock, and for the love of God, or if not Him then at least for her, throw out the rest of that damnable drug."

"Watson!"

"This world fades, Holmes, and I would have it that way."

Holmes nodded in affirmation. "One thing, how much of this is of dreams? Have you any idea?"

Watson smiled. "I think that may be the first time you've asked me that without an idea of your own, but I think I shall take a page from your own book and leave you to wonder a bit longer."

Holmes truly smiled at the man. "Good show, Watson."

What might have been a blink, or a sharp, slapping breeze, brought Sherlock back into his sitting room, the images of the creek still fresh in his mind. He stared in the general direction of the fireplace until an annoyed cough rose him from the cobwebs of his mind. Surprise once again found a home on his face, as the very angry countenance of Beth Lestrade bore down on him, a syringe fixed dangling between her fingers. The second his eyes found it she threw it to smash in the back of the hearth, followed by a tiny bottle.

"You are the most infuriating man I have _ever_ met in my life. Damn it, Holmes, you lied straight to my face, and then you pull this wonderful little act of yours! I, I've got so many different things running through my head I haven't a clue where to start. It actually hurts to think right now, and it's all because of you."

"You were released." A hint of surprise tinged his voice.

Lestrade stopped and a light seemed to come on. "Yes. I was released, yesterday in fact. I thought of coming here to see what had become of you, but decided taking a bath in my own home was preferable to coming here, and I was right."

Holmes stared. "Yesterday?"

Lestrade flashed him a smile that would have chilled a normal man. "That's right, yesterday." She said sweetly.

"Impossible."

"Then how do you explain my standing here, it's the eight of January. Holmes, you've been missing for two weeks, care to explain where you were? No, wait, I don't want to know, I'm having enough trouble with just being here."

Holmes pinched the bridge of his nose. "My dear Lestrade, that made even less sense than usual."

She stared at him completely beside herself with shock. "You're joking. You're not joking. Forget it, I'm leaving."

Holmes recovered himself enough to snap back with, "what the devil are you going on about?"

Fire and hot coals rained down from her smoldering blue eyes. "Don't you dare play with me, I am not in the mood for it."

Holmes studied her for a moment, going silent much to the young brunette's agitation. Finally, he gazed directly into her eyes. "That wasn't part of a dream, was it?"

At first he though perhaps he had figured wrong, that she wouldn't understand his covert meaning, but slowly a blush crept up on her and told him all he needed to know, for the moment. Her hand went to the edge of her pale pink lips and back to smooth a strand of hair behind her ear, and she looked away from him and his bandaged arm. He felt his entire being grow cold with shame. Good Lord, what had he done?

He stared at her, hard, breathing as though his lungs were made of ice. He couldn't have, she couldn't have, he wouldn't have allowed it, the impropriety of it all was a mental train wreck consisting of uncountable cars converging at one point. Had Sherlock eyes to step outside his body he might have been able to recognise his symptoms, but lacking such design left him to handle the onslaught of clarity with all the grace of an out placed Victorian gentleman. Here was what his brother had been driving at, defiantly staring him in the face. For the love of God, even the implied ghostly presence of his mother seemed to have a better notion of things than he.

Wild grey eyes darted to the lady's hands, ignoring her own curious glances that revealed thin veins of annoyance towards him. Bare. Her hands were bare. She had no doubt placed it somewhere safe, and out of reach. He laughed aloud, anxiety crawling it's way up his esophagus as he clawed the arms of the chair with his fingers. It was like drowning, or so he assumed, on the outside a pitiful plight to drive away humanity only to have it stare so deeply inward that you become consciously aware you're not breathing. She would be far angrier than before, but it was her fault she never thought to check the floor boards, so on the shadows about him danced, and he, in turn enticed them to stay. A small smile crept up on his thin, white face, his eyes a diluted pale blue gazing without focus until locking on hers.

It was strange to realise she wasn't cross with him, for he couldn't pin point when exactly her anger had subsided as usually she had all the characteristics of a tropical thunderstorm. No matter, this was merely the eye of the tempest masquerading behind wide eyes and parted lips. Gone for two weeks. Did it matter? No, he thought not. He remembered John Watson speaking of the effects of opium once, after their shared adventure that had started for the good doctor in the search of a friend- had he been in the Devil's Den for two weeks? He couldn't have, surely he would have caused his own death, but then, perhaps not. Life was funny that way. As a man brought back from the dead in his original body, did drugs even have the same effect on him as they once had? In hindsight, he supposed they must have similar reactions, having noted no difference, perhaps it was his constitution that played a separate game. Being brought back from the dead most assuredly topped the list of "most unlikely things to live through".

For a passing moment, he wondered why he placed himself in these states, but the question soon vanished. He didn't care. It was as simple as that. A voice, however, rallied in the back of his mind contradicting the statement. A sentiment resembling "dear God" rose in the back of his throat choking him off, and in defiant retaliation he drove the needle home for the second, perhaps third time that night, revelling in the freedom of the drug, the acute sensation of seeing everything and nothing at the same time. In this state he truly felt the presence of the higher power he prayed to almost unaware, Christian sentimentality at its highest- then, the low. A mind numbing plunge into the coldest waters where you know God is watching from safety, but unmoving, because he _is_ moving, only you're too far gone to realise it until the end when you're drug up on shore by others either to die or live.

Sherlock could only assume that God's eyes were made of water in cases such as his, threatening to drown, save, or throw back up, but always within His grasp. Then again, he thought, as an encore of dance from the shadows lit by the fireplace light, it could always be the drug, a self indulgent Hell he secretly adored. It had occurred to him in his youth that he would have made a fine scientist, or in the new era's lingo: an anarchist, or was it atheist? Hard to say which was the more appealing. It brought a laugh to his lips, it truly did, and in due course of his rambling and revelations he failed to notice the pretty young woman out in the hall scared with, barred for all to see, a trail of tears down her cheeks. She left then, hormones at war with the world, and travelled down well worn steps into the servants quarters, sat upon an old bed and cried freely, pregnant and terrified of the thing that now sat where a great man once stood.

* * *

_Takes place January 8, 2105_

_Obviously I finished the rest of what I had planned out for the chapter. It's not much of an add on, but I like it a lot. _


	10. Tales of the Mad

Dr. John Watson since meeting Sherlock Holmes had lost count how often he had been taken aback by an event, whether it be in shock or fright or fight or, at times, flight. This, however, this left him perturbed and quite undone emotionally. If it weren't for his desperate grasp on the rational side of his mind calming him to the fact there had to be more than he was seeing, he would have been of the mind to leave Holmes' company for good.

He was trudging up the stairs now, as if weighted down by sacks of mud tied to his calves, having left the body of Elizabeth Lestrade1 under sheet in her room after a cursory examination. His findings left him with a new understanding to why his mercurial friend indulged in shooting holes in the wall- indeed, he feared could do with a bit of shooting something himself. Indignity blossomed within his veins upon reaching the door of the sitting room, and he swept up a vase set on a table just between doors, tossing the flowers out.

Holmes found his –as Watson felt like defining it then- sulking crashing down around him in a wet slap of water upon his face. When realizing he would have to speak, the good doctor had to contend with being too angry to blurt out more than what he did; at least the intelligible part for admittedly some of it was sheer noise.

"Pregnant! God damn you, you insufferable man, she was with child!" the vase flailing along helplessly with every grandiose gesture of his hand.

It was a pleasure to watch true horror overtake Holmes' face, just as it was painful to not physically accost the man when he whispered, "I swear to you, Watson, I did not know."

He started to pace. "By God, Holmes, I have never had reason to call you foolish, but this, _this..._"

Regaining some of his colouring, Sherlock wiped the water off his face, and snapped off in a venomous voice barely above the last. "I never touched her."

"Bollocks," came the deadpanned reply, "you, you," _good Lord, he was stuttering_. Watson paused to inhale deeply. "You played that woman like your damnable violin. I could see it, Mrs. Hudson could see it; even clients could see it! This will get you _nowhere_ with me!"

"Damn it, Watson, I thought you had more faith in me than that!" Droplets of water hitting the floor, chair, and both men's shoes as the man stood.

An arctic chill seemed to resonate from John's eyes just then, in a narrow beam locking with eyes that might've better suited wolves. "What of her faith in you?" So close, he was so close to throwing all ingrained measures of decorum to the proverbial wind, but in the back of his mind he feared too greatly what more it would cost.

A sharp breath reached his ears, and for the first time in their seemingly solid roles, John Watson could see the lines of Holmes' mask cracking. He watched him blink once, then twice, before him the wilderness that had been in the detective's stony gaze vanished, and an alarming softness replaced it.

"It's all wrong, John, this is all _wrong._"

"The devil is the matter with you?"

Watson's countenance was awash with worry, and alarm. Holmes pursed his lips once, and gazed balefully at his companion.

"Regretfully, I cannot be counted as myself just now; I do not know, nor do I understand the happenings about us."

The doctor did two things then; he set the vase down, and fetched the brandy. "Regretfully, I think you have lost your mind," he said with a flop onto the couch and a fast downing of three fingers. "I believe I have lost my desire to speak."

Holmes sat beside him with his own glass in hand, startling Watson far more than his words did. Seeing the expression, Sherlock grimaced what under fairer circumstances might've been a passable flash of smile. "Indulge me this once and I shall attempt to tell you what I can."

Watson blinked. "Fine."

A pregnant pause hung in the air while Sherlock took a sip and sighed. "I regretfully assure you I am quite sane."

"The devil," John started quick as Sherlock's thin hand silenced him. "I beg of you, Watson."

Sherlock gave a grimacing quirk of his lips, hovering over his glass before pulling it away. "Haunted, Watson, we are being haunted and hunted by a devil."

"And I suppose this devil accounts for Miss Lestrade's condition?" Watson's voice catching with heated heartache.

"No. I cannot begin to guess how she came by that… fact. Do not speak on it! By God, you _must_ believe me. It is imperative."

A wholly uncharacteristic laugh escaped from the doctor's mouth as he stood. "I will not. I refuse," he said, turning to face the man who with those words had gone sickly with pallor.

"It cannot be helped then. Will you listen still?" He said to the pitiful shaking of John's dusty brown head.

"To what gain?" He asked wearily.

"My mother's wedding ring was not the only one Miss Lestrade came upon. There are three rings. Two of which are engagement rings, exactly the same. Of which, the latter two belonged to a woman who died in childbirth."

A frown deepened the worried creases of Watson's brow. "I fail to see how this relates."

Holmes ran his hands over his face, eyes reflecting thoughts of a thousand avenues. "A man is behind it all. I've seen him, albeit in a less than coherent state, which I believe to be a method of his torment. I believe he poisoned Elizabeth Lestrade, and I believe he means to end us as well."

"And how do you suppose all that from rings? Clearly the man is a grave robber, and I know of _nothing_ on earth that can account for Miss Lestrade's passing."

"My mother's grave remains untouched. And 'nothing on earth' is precisely the point."

"No. No, Holmes. Men are devils enough, you've said so yourself countless times. Speaking in circles will not change that, nor will imagining devils where there are none save you."

For the first time in their long association, John Watson was treated to the passing sight of an unknown expression on the face of Sherlock Holmes: true hurt.

"The way she arrived here was not a fabrication, Watson," he said softly, watching the man don his hat and overcoat.

"I feel I must tell you that I intend to go to your brother, as I have not the power to do what needs to be done."

Not even the shrinking shadow of John behind the closing door reached Sherlock's eyes, for they had gone dark.

* * *

**EXTRA: I originally wrote this as a character description, so you can see the possible beginning for whatever is haunting Holmes & Lestrade.  
**

_The Antagonist. Somewhere between the light of the night and the dark of the day. He sits in a plush high back chair, smoking a nondescript cigarette, a look of such though upon his face you might be led to believe he hold the answers to the universe in his unasked questions. He doesn't though. He doesn't roll his own smokes, and he isn't ethereal. He believes in God, but he's more likely to say "even demons do" than to quote scripture. It's such a thrill to touch people in the way he does, he won't to all, he isn't evil, but like any self admitted sociopath he has his favourites. His name? "I go by Graham," is his usual reply, if that much at all._


End file.
